of 


140 


r 


PATCHWORK 


T 


HE   POEMS  AND   PROSE 

SKETCHES  OE 

MALEY   BAINBRIDGE  CRIST 


ATLANTA 
THE  MARTIN  &  HOYT 

THE  DIXIE   PRESS 
1595 


Copyright,  1898,  by 
MALEY  BAINBRIDGK  CRIST 


***  The  publication  of  this  complete  edition  of  Airs.  Crist' s 
•works  is  made  possible  by  the  courtesy  of  the  Frank 
Leslie's  Monthly,  who  originally  published  several  of 
Mrs.  Crisfs  poems  and  sketches. 


Illustrations  designed  by 
MRS.  DAVID  BOTT  MANI.KY 


TO  MY  PRECIOUS  SON, 
LUCIEN  BAINBRIDGE  CRIST, 

WHOSE  YOUNG  LIFE  IS  THE  POESY  OF  MY  EXISTENCE; 
AND  TO  MY  DEAR  MOTHER, 

LUCRETIA  WRIGHT  BAINBRIDGE, 
WHO  DAILY  GAVE  MY  CHILDISH  SOUL  INSPIRATION 

FOR  LIFE'S  HIGHEST  IDEALS, 

I  DEDICATE  THESE  TALES  AND  RHYMES, 

SKETCHED  IN  THE  LEISURE  MOMENTS  OF  A  BUSY  LIFE. 

—  Maley  Bainbridge  Crist. 


<(  Keep  thy  heart  with  all  diligence,  for  out  of  it 
are  the  issues  of  lifeP 


1711358 


AUTHOR'S  PREFACE 


(<  Do  not  trouble  yourself  too  much  about  the 
light  on  your  statue,"  said  Michael  Angelo  to  the 
young  sculptor,  (( the  light  of  the  public  square 

will  test  its  value." 


CONTENTS  "PATCHWORK" 

«  «  « 

STORIES 

PAGE 

THE  WOMAN'S  STORY  OF  TOLSTOI'S  KREUTZER  SONATA,  15 

ROMANCE  OF  A  KENTUCKIAN  IN  ST.  AUGUSTINE,     -     -  57 

LITTLE  JEAN'S  THEFT, 77 

NUMBER  FOURTEEN,     ---- Si 

CATHERINE, - 91 

THE  EXPERIENCE  OF  A  CORPSE,  OR  THE  FIRST   NIGHT 

UNDER  GROUND, .    .    .    .  n^ 

LOVE'S  FIRST  CONQUEST.     (Leggendario),       -    -     -     -  131 

A  CONFEDERATE  FOR  A  DAY, -  139 

THE  Two  HAT  PINS,     ----'----                   -  149 

A  CHAPTER  FROM  A  BOY'S  LIFE,       157 

How  THE  CAPTAIN  FOUND  His  SERVANT, 165 

THE  BRIDAL  CHAMBER  OF  FLORIDA'S  SILVER  SPRINGS,  173 

POEMS 
TEMPTATION, --------     jg^ 

VILLANELLE.     (The  Jasmines'  Message), 191 

I  Miss  You  So, 192 

MISSISSIPPI  ON  THE  GULF, 193 

vii 


Contents  (<  Patchwork  » 

PAGE 

WHY  DANDELIONS  TURN  GRAY, 194 

LINES  TO  A  BEAUTIFUL  GIRL, 197 

AWAY  DOWN  IN  GEORGIA, 198 

PROTEST, 200 

VlLLANELLE, 2OI 

THE  STARS  AND  BARS,       202 

ONENESS, 204 

ECHO,  ----- 206 

WHAT  HER  SISTER  THOUGHT, 208 

CLEOPATRA, 209 

RETROSPECTION, 211 

REGRET, 213 

INFINITE, 217 

A  DARK  NIGHT, 219 

GOLD  -vs.  LOVE, -    -    -     221 

LINES  TO  MY  MOTHER, 223 

CONTENT, - 225 

CHASTENED,       227 

REVERY,     -    -    -  -    -     -     228 

«I  AM  THE  WAY,W .    .    .    .  230 

FLORIDA,  QUEEN  OF  THE  SOUTH, 232 

LINES   RESPECTFULLY   DEDICATED   TO   GENERAL   J.    J. 

DICKISON, •     -     -     -  233 

THE  RED,  RED  ROSE,  235 

How  Do  I  LOVE  You  ?  -  236 

TRUST, 237 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 

MALEY  BAINBRIDGE  CRIST Frontispiece 

HE  LIFTED  ME  FROM  THE  COFFIN  AS  THOUGH  I  HAD  BEEN 

A  CHILD 47 

I  LOVE  You;  AND  You  — You  LOVE  HER.  ...      64 

THE  SLIGHT,  BEAUTIFULLY  ROUNDED  FIGURE  OF  A  YOUNG 

GIRL 66 

YOURS  is  A  CURIOUS  THEFT,  THIS  STEALING  FLOWERS      .      78 
FAIR    SUMMER  KNEW  HER  POWER,  COQUETTISHLY   SHE 

TURNED  AWAY  137 

ONE  WAS  A  JEWELED  THING  OF  BEAUTY,  THE  OTHER  A 

CONFEDERATE  BUTTON,  BEARING  THE  S.  C.  COAT  OF 

ARMS 149 

FLOWERS  ARE  GOD'S  PRETTY  LITTLE  THOUGHTS,  MAMMA    157 
I  FEEL  AS  IF  I  COULD  FOLLOW  THAT  MELODY,  IF  I  HAD 

A  FLUTE 162 

WITH  COMPLIMENTS  OF  THE  AUTHOR  TO  THE  MANY  FRIENDS 

DESIRING  THIS  PHOTO 185 

TEMPTATION — (<  Behold!    the   image    cold    seemed  to  have 

grown 

Into  real  life  —  a  woman,  sweet  and  fair."     187 
TEMPTATION — (<The   fair  dream  picture  vanished  from  his 

view, 

And  with  it,  sin  cast  off  her  blooming  mask."     188 
TEMPTATION  — (<They  gazed  upon  the  priest  in  fear  and  awe, 

Amazed  at  the  angelic  look  he  wore."    .        .     190 

STARS  AND  BARS— 

<(  It  shall  live  in  song  and  story, 
Though  its  folds  are  in  the  dust."        .        .    202 


//  is  gratifying  to  know  that  the  public  is  to  be  favored  with 
a  collection  of  Mrs.  Crisfs  writings. 

It  is  only  a  fair  encouragement  to  the  talent  and  labor  of  the 
•writer  for  me  to  express  the  hope  that  w  Patchwork  M  will  be  cor 
dially  received  by  the  public.  Stamped  as  it  is  with  her  personality 
and  of  southern  inspiration,  I  believe  it  will  be  so  received  by  that 
people  who  are  ever  ready  to  recognize  grace  and  reward  effort. 


WASHINGTON,  D.  C.,  January  28,  1898. 


PATCHWORK 


THE  WOMAN'S  STORY  OF  TOLSTOI'S 
KREUTZER   SONATA 

«  «  « 

CHAPTER  I. 

WITHOUT  doubt,  no  class  of  men  are  so  well 
versed  in  psychological  analysis  as  the 
priesthood,  for  to  them  is  laid  bare  the  human 
conscience  with  its  mysterious  promptings  and 
consciousness  of  guilt  in  motive  or  act.  The 
sins  of  their  people  become  a  powerful  edu 
cator,  not  alone  deepening  their  insight  and 
broadening  their  sympathy  for  frail  humanity, 
but  lifting  them,  as  well,  to  a  higher  and  more 
exalted  plane  of  life.  Father  Wayneclete,  the 
venerable  and  venerated  Benedictine  whose  life 
of  labor  and  love  elicited  the  devotion  of  all 
with  whom  he  came  in  contact,  was  a  superior 
example  of  this  class  of  men.  His  sincere 

15 


The  Woman's  Story  of 

earnestness,  his  singular  asceticism,  combined 
with  great  wisdom  and  courage,  and,  above  all 
else,  the  most  divine  spirit  of  charity  which 
marked  his  dealings  with  his  fellow-men, 
stamped  him  an  extraordinary  personage.  For 
ten  years  Father  Wayneclete  had  been  in  charge 
of  a  monastery  in  a  certain  small  village  in 
England.  Situated  less  than  a  mile  from  the 
monastery,  stood  a  convent  where  for  thirty 
years  had  dwelt  a  nun  in  whose  seemingly 
quiet  and  uneventful  life  there  might  never 
have  been  revealed  a  past,  save  for  the  pres 
ence  of  this  monk.  At  a  table  in  a  chamber 
of  the  convent  sat  the  nun.  Some  way  —  the 
bare  room,  with  its  lack  of  the  touches  of  fem 
ininity,  was  in  keeping  with  her  presence.  The 
rigid  folds  of  her  coarse  serge  gown  seemed  to 
accentuate,  rather  than  detract  from  the  beauty 
of  a  figure  which  might  have  served  as  a  Gre 
cian  model.  She  seemed  torn  by  intensity  of 
feeling.  Her  bosom  heaved  convulsively,  and 
gazing  upward  she  exclaimed  aloud :  <(  Holy 
Mother,  pity  me !  I  must  express  my  feelings, 
or  I  shall  go  mad. w  Catching  up  pen  and 
paper,  her  trembling  hand  glided  rapidly  across 

16 


Tolstoi's  Kreut^er  Sonata. 

the  sheets;  and  like  one  demented,  she  mur 
mured  aloud  the  sentences  which  tossed  them 
selves  from  her  burning  brain.  Her  voice  was 
hoarse  with  emotion,  as  she  followed  aloud 
these  tracings  of  her  pen.  <(  In  the  seclusion 
of  my  convent  chamber,  my  rebellious  hand 
dares  pen  thoughts  and  deeds  which  should 
long  since  have  been  wiped  from  memory.  In 
this,  I  may  be  committing  an  unpardonable  sin 
—  but  it  is  a  partial  escape  from  self,  and  a 
possible  rescue  from  insanity.  For  thirty  years, 
none  have  ever  guessed  the  wild  war  which 
has  waged  in  my  heart,  and  which  neither 
time,  solitude,  nor  religion,  have  the  power  to 
subdue.  My  religious  duties  are  a  hollow 
mockery,  and  my  life  a  living  lie ;  for  during 
all  the  outward  calm  of  these  years  of  convent 
life,  there  has  rankled  in  my  heart,  where 
naught  but  love  and  peace  should  reign,  a 
hatred  both  fierce  and  bitter;  hatred  toward 
man,  the  author  of  all  my  woe  —  man,  in  whom 
for  thirty  years  I  have  believed  goodness  and 
sincerity  to  be  but  a  myth,  an  ideal  element 
bestowed  by  deluded  women.  It  is  hard  for 
one  who  has  suffered  as  I  have  to  brand  them- 
2  17 


The  Woman's  Story  of 

selves  a  hypocrite,  and  yet  such  I  feel  myself 
to  be,  for  I  have  entered  the  Confessional  dur 
ing  all  these  years,  without  once  unburdening 
my  soul  of  its  past  sins.  Even  now,  when 
upon  the  very  brink  of  despair,  my  proud  heart 
rebels  against  revealing  itself  to  man,  and  I 
hesitate,  even  though  mine  own  eyes  have 
witnessed  the  unselfish  and  self-sacrificing 
life  of  this  Benedictine,  Father  Wayneclete. 
Woman!  surely  thy  name  is  inconsistency. 
Wherefore,  after  thirty  years  of  hatred  and 
distrust  toward  man,  should  the  white  flower 
of  faith  blossom,  and  I  eagerly  stretch  forth 
my  hands  to  welcome  the  first  opportunity  of 
baring  my  poor  scarred  heart  before  this  monk, 
for  he  compels  both  confidence  and  respect. w 
She  stopped  suddenly,  and  rising  to  her  feet, 
rent  the  manuscript  into  a  thousand  fragments, 
exclaiming  as  she  did  so :  (<  It  is  all  useless,  use 
less ;  I  can  but  find  relief  in  the  unburdening 
of  my  soul  of  its  sins.  I  must  save  myself 
from  insanity,  and  this  is  my  last,  my  only 
resort.  *  She  hesitated  for  a  moment  only,  and 
then,  trembling  violently,  stole  softly  from  the 
convent,  and  down  the  dark  avenue  of  trees, 

18 


Tolstoi's  Kreut^er  Sonata. 

leading  to  the  monastery  of  the  Benedictine. 
So  intent  was  she  upon  her  purpose,  that  of 
finding  the  sympathy  which  now  alone  could 
sustain  poor  tottering  reason,  that  a  sense 
of  impropriety  in  thus  stealing  away  to  the 
monastery  never  entered  her  mind,  nor  did  the 
fact  that  she  might  encounter  other  monks 
than  Father  Wayneclete.  Onward  sped  the 
slight  dark-robed  figure  which  might  easily 
have  been  confounded  with  the  shadows  of  the 
night.  Onward,  and  still  onward,  never  paus 
ing  until  she  reached  and  ascended  the  steps 
of  the  monastery  Cathedral.  The  human  mind 
is  so  constituted  as  often  to  observe,  and,  as  it 
were,  amuse  itself  with  the  most  minute  and 
trivial  surroundings  at  times  when  its  greatest 
interests  are  at  stake.  And  so  this  nun,  who 
shrank  into  the  darkest  corner  of  the  dimly- 
lighted  cathedral,  mechanically  noted  the  gold 
embroidered  cloth,  and  quaintly  carved  candle 
sticks  of  the  altar;  noted  the  heavy  crimson 
curtain  of  the  Confessional,  the  pictures  along 
the  nave,  and  even  the  faint  perfume  of  the 
lilies  which  decked  the  altar  of  the  Virgin  be 
fore  which  knelt  the  aged  Benedictine,  upon 

19 


The  Woman's  Story  of 

whose  help  she  now  so  absolutely  depended; 
then,  slowly  her  mind  wandered  back  to  the 
object  of  her  visit,  and  she  wondered,  shudder- 
ingly,  if  this  man  would  be  able  to  save  her 
from  herself.  The  church  was  deserted,  save 
for  the  presence  of  these  two.  She  was  incapable 
of  judging  the  length  of  time  that  elapsed 
before  the  monk  ceased  his  devotion,  and 
moved  slowly  down  the  aisle  of  the  church. 
She  was  too  greatly  excited  to  speak,  and 
seized  the  sleeve  of  his  surtout  much  as  a 
child  might  have  done.  He  started  percep 
tibly.  The  presence  of  a  nun  in  this  monastic 
precinct  was  a  thing  unheard  of;  and  yet  his 
manner  was  kindly,  and  his  voice  sympathetic 
as  he  inquired :  <c  What  can  I  do  for  you,  my 
daughter !  w  The  poor  creature  seemed  suffering 
bodily,  as  well  as  mentally,  and  for  an  instant 
the  small  bloodless  hands  with  their  scarred 
fingers,  were  pressed  closely  against  the  left 
side,  while  a  spasm  of  pain  contracted  the 
features,  which  notwithstanding  the  ravages  of 
age  and  suffering,  together  with  the  deep  and 
lasting  scars  which  appealed  pitifully  to  an 
observer,  still  bore  unmistakable  traces  of 


Tolstoi's  Krent^er  Sonata. 

beauty.  The  monk  noted  all  this  and  also 
that  the  face  was  that  of  a  Russian,  as  he 
caught  in  his  arms  the  fainting  figure,  which 
must  otherwise  have  fallen  at  his  feet. 


CHAPTER  II. 

FATHER  WAYNECLETE  was  now  thoroughly 
alarmed,  for  the  face  of  his  strange  guest  in 
the  dimly-lighted  cathedral  seemed  to  bear  the 
gray  ashy  whiteness  of  a  corpse.  Not  caring 
to  arouse  the  inmates  of  the  monastery,  and 
thereby  perhaps  divulge  a  secret  intended  for 
himself  alone,  he  labored  patiently  with  his 
charge,  chafing  the  small,  cold  hands,  and 
forcing  stimulants  between  the  colorless  lips, 
until  he  was  rewarded  by  her  return  to  con 
sciousness.  She  sat  up,  and  gazing  about  in  a 
bewildered  way,  would  have  spoken,  but  for 
the  interposition  of  the  monk.  <(Wait,  daugh 
ter.  Do  not  try  to  speak  until  you  are 
stronger ! w  he  exclaimed;  and  she  obeyed  with 
the  docility  of  a  child.  For  some  moments 
they  sat  thus,  when  the  nun  broke  the  silence 


The  Woman's  Story  of 

by  exclaiming  in  a  voice  so  pensive,  so  soft 
and  sweet,  that  it  was  like  the  notes  of  a  bird, 
or  the  soft  ripple  of  water.  (<  Father,  I  have 
come  to  you,  that  you  may  save  me  from  my 
self.  w  <(  Daughter, M  replied  the  monk,  <(  I  will 
gladly  offer  you  my  sympathy  and  assistance 
by  pointing  you  to  the  sacrament  of  penance, 
that  you  may  make  your  peace  with  God." 
"Father,"  she  continued,  (<for  thirty  years  I 
have  entered  the  Confessional  without  once 
revealing  the  burdens  of  my  scarred  heart. 
My  life  has  been  a  living  lie.  But  the  hour 
has  come  when  I  must  unburden  my  soul  of 
its  sins,  and  find  forgiveness.  Nay,  more  —  I 
must  have  something  tangible.  I  must  have 
warm  human  sympathy;  for  let  my  sins  be 
what  they  may,  my  suffering  has  been  such 
that  I  cannot  bear  reproach;  and  you  —  you  are 
the  only  one  to  whom  I  feel  I  can  confide  the 
story  of  my  life."  (C  Though  your  sins  be  as 
scarlet,  they  shall  be  white  as  snow."  Softly 
the  beautiful  promise  of  God  fell  from  the  lips 
of  the  monk,  and  soothed  the  aching  heart  of 
the  grief -stricken  nun  beside  him.  A  heavy 
sigh  shook  her  form  as  she  replied :  (( Never 


Tolstoi's  Kreut^er  Sonata. 

was  there  an  experience  like  mine;  never  a 
life  more  desolate;  and  never,  perchance,  a  life 
hurled  into  eternity  by  the  stroke  of  a  dagger, 
and  brought  back  by  a  kiss,  a  caress,  a  kindly 
word.  Ah!  how  empty  all  that  seems  to  me 
now!  But  I  digress.  To  begin  my  story,  I 
was  the  daughter  of  a  landed  gentleman  of 
Penza  whose  fortune  was  ruined  by  unwise 
speculation.  I  was  most  tenderly  and  delicately 
reared.  Educated  in  a  convent,  breathing  from 
infancy,  as  it  were,  the  spirituality  of  my  sur 
roundings,  I  was  graduated  at  an  early  age 
without  having  entered  into  the  slightest  con 
tact  with  the  practical  and  materialistic  outside 
world.  My  nature  being  both  poetical  and 
hypersensitive,  became  abnormally  so,  nurtured 
by  such  surroundings;  and  my  introduction  to 
society,  found  me  as  guileless  and  unsuspicious 
as  a  little  child,  and  equally  as  ready  to  clothe 
whomsoever  fancy  might  dictate  with  attributes 
existing  alone  in  my  own  imagination.  Just  as 
my  education  was  completed,  the  reverses  in 
my  father's  fortune  occurred;  but  although 
dowerless,  I  found  myself  surrounded  by 
admirers,  for  I  was  what  the  world  called 


The  Woman's  Story  of 

beautiful  and  my  accomplishments  were  more 
than  ordinary.  My  life  was  smooth  and  unevent 
ful  until  there  crossed  its  pathway  the  man 
destined  forever  to  curse  it  —  one  Posdnicheff. 
But  how  the  name  startles  you!  You  have 
heard  the  story,  then,  of  Posdnicheff  the  wife 
murderer  ?  Aye !  but  you  have  heard  only  one 
side  of  it;  the  other  I  am  about  to  relate  to 
you.  But  compose  yourself,  father.  You  are 
white  like  death ;  you  tremble  and  your  teeth 
chatter.  You  are  not  in  the  presence  of  a 
spirit,  but  in  that  of  the  wife  of  whom  not 
alone  Posdnicheff,  but  all  who  have  heard  his 
story,  believe  to  be  in  her  grave. w  (( Proceed, 
daughter, w  replied  the  monk,  with  a  desperate 
effort  at  composure.  (<  This  Posdnicheff , w  she 
continued,  <(  created  upon  me  a  different  im 
pression  than  had  any  of  my  other  admirers. 
There  was  a  suave  deference  in  his  manner 
toward  women,  mingled  with  certain  easy  non 
chalance  which  completely  captivated  me;  for 
how  was  I  to  know  that  the  very  attributes  I 
admired  in  this  man  were  born  of  his  intimate 
experience  with  women;  or,  in  short,  that  he 
appreciated  them  because  he  was  a  voluptuary. 

-4 


Tolstoi's  Kreut^er  Sonata. 

It  is  difficult  for  a  person  of  my  temperament 
to  disbelieve  in  those  who  please  them.  The 
distrust  must  come  through  bitter  experience, 
and  my  disillusion  came  through  matrimony. 
Even  now,  when  to  forget  would  be  a  happi 
ness  I  never  hope  to  realize,  does  my  memory 
recall  in  vivid  detail  every  thrill  of  joy  that 
filled  my  heart  the  night  I  was  betrothed  to 
Posdnicheff.  I  remember  just  how  our  boat 
rocked  to  and  fro  as  it  drifted  along  in  the 
moonlight,  and  how  he  praised  the  shimmer  of 
my  hair,  and  vowed  I  was  the  only  woman  he 
had  ever  loved.  I  remember,  too,  that  after  our 
marriage,  his  first  allusion  to  this  betrothal  night 
was  one  of  scorn.  He  said,  had  it  not  been  for 
the  moonlight  on  the  water,  the  shimmer  of  my 
perfumed  hair,  and  the  exquisite  fit  of  my  gown, 
he  would  fortunately  have  remained  heart-whole. 
Doubtless  he  was  right,  for  well  do  women 
know  that  men  esteem  them  in  proportion  to 
their  physical  attractions;  and  if  in  addition 
they  have  brain  combined  with  a  certain  degree 
of  docility  that  renders  them  governable,  why, 
so  much  the  better.  This  all  women  know  in 
stinctively,  but  no  pure  woman  ever  dreams  of 

25 


The  Woman's  Story  of 

the  depth  of  moral  degradation  into  which  she 
may  be  plunged  by  the  man  who  swears  to 
honor  and  protect  her. 

(<  My  engagement  to  Posdnicheff  was  brief;  and 
my  fondness  and  childlike  trust  in  him  rendered 
sacred  every  detail  of  preparation  toward  that 
great  event,  wrhich  I  told  myself  should  permit 
me  to  dwell  in  the  sunshine  of  his  presence  as 
long  as  life  should  last.  Our  courtship,  however, 
was  the  only  pleasant  period  I  \vas  permitted 
to  enjoy  with  Posdnicheff;  and  this  was  destined 
to  be  interrupted.  I  shall  never  forget  the 
awful  moment  wherein  he  temporarily  shattered 
my  confidence,  and  for  the  time  obliterated 
every  vestige  of  happiness.  Had  I  been  less 
attached  to  him,  or  had  I  been  more  experi 
enced,  when  he  sho\ved  me  his  diary  in  which 
was  enough  guilt  to  blast  him  in  the  eyes  of  the 
world,  I  would  have  then  renounced  him  for 
ever  ;  but  God  pity  me !  I  was  a  very  child  in 
experience,  and  in  my  weakness,  and  young 
girl's  love,  I  forgave  him,  compelling  myself 
to  believe  that  his  affection  for  me,  had  made 
him  a  different  man,  and  that  he  was  now  a 
creature  incapable  of  a  sin  so  heinous  as  that 

26 


Tolstoi's  Kreut^er  Sonata. 

portrayed  in  his  diary  by  his  own  confession. 
Oh,  the  fallacy,  the  hallucination  of  that  blind 
infatuation  the  world  calls  love. 

<(  The  break  in  our  courtship  was  patched  up, 
and  wedding  preparations  went  on  with  increased 
rapidity.  But  alas!  how  swift  my  disillusion. 
The  anticipated  honeymoon  palled  upon  my 
taste,  and  like  the  fabled  apples  of  the  Dead 
Sea,  turned  to  ashes.  All  the  mental  congeni 
ality  and  union  of  soul  of  which  I  had  dreamed, 
vanished  forever  in  a  tide  of  aversion  and  dis 
gust.  I  found  myself  wedded  to  a  monster, 
who  viewed  my  every  act  with  jealousy  and 
suspicion.  How  well  do  I  remember,  when  I 
was  no  longer  able  to  control  my  feelings  in  his 
presence,  I  endeavored  to  evade  him  by  a  pre 
tense  that  I  was  fretting  for  my  mother;  but 
when  he  failed  to  console  me,  and  began  chid 
ing  me  as  capricious,  I  ceased  crying  and  burst 
into  such  a  state  of  frenzied  rage  as  to  aston 
ish  him  into  quietude.  It  was  our  first  quarrel, 
and  it  was  a  fierce  one.  A  mighty  chasm 
which  neither  of  us  should  ever  be  able  to 
bridge  had  suddenly  yawned  between  us.  Quar 
rel  followed  quarrel  in  rapid  succession,  each 

27 


The  Woman's  Story  of 

more  bitter  than  the  preceding  one;  and  yet, 
violent  as  were  these  quarrels,  there  were  inter 
vals  when  this  man's  bitterness  and  jealousy 
were  for  the  time  being  forgotten,  only  to  burst 
forth  with  renewed  fury.  Picture  to  yourself 
what  to  a  pure  woman  such  a  life  must  have 
been!  Hell  can  hold  no  terror  to  one  who  suf 
fered  as  did  I.  Posdnicheff's  diabolical  jealousy 
seemed  continually  to  increase,  until  finally  no 
man  dared  address  me  upon  the  most  common 
place  topic,  that  his  motives  were  not  impugned. 
He  was  even  jealous  of  my  attentions  to  my 
babe  —  my  little  Basil,  who  brought  the  first 
gleam  of  sunshine  to  my  married  life.  Ere  long, 
however,  a  baby  in  the  household  ceased  to  be 
a  novelty,  and  domestic  cares  crowded  upon  me 
with  such  rapidity  that  my  health  became 
broken  and  my  nerves  completely  shattered; 
and  I  am  satisfied,  that  but  for  the  timely  and 
persistent  interposition  of  my  family  physician, 
who  insisted  that  I  must  have  a  complete  rest, 
both  physical  and  mental,  my  miserable  exist 
ence  must  surely  have  had  a  speedy  termi 
nation.  This  was  the  source  of  another  fierce 
quarrel  between  Posdnicheff  and  myself,  he 


Tolstoi's  Kreut^er  Sonata. 

avowing  that  no  rascally  doctor  had  any  right 
to  intrude  his  advice.  In  this  instance,  how 
ever,  I  was  firm;  and  after  a  three  months' 
visit  to  my  paternal  home  (my  first  in  ten 
years),  so  rapid  was  the  improvement  in  my 
shattered  health  and  broken  spirits,  that  I  re 
turned  to  my  family  with  almost  the  buoyancy 
of  youth  in  my  veins.  Inevitable  burdens  were 
more  easily  borne,  and  even  the  fault-finding  and 
unkindness  of  Posdnicheff  ceased  to  trouble  me. 
For  the  first  time  in  years,  I  took  an  interest 
in  things  that  had  been  my  delight  in  girlhood 
days.  Once  more  I  tirelessly  applied  myself  to 
the  piano,  until  I  again  became  a  first-rate  per 
former.  All  this,  however,  was  witnessed  by 
Posdnicheff  with  direct  distrust  and  indigna 
tion;  but  having  grown  calloused  through 
long  abuse,  a  spirit  of  complete  indifference  now 
took  possession  of  me,  or  I  should  have  been 
utterly  wretched  under  his  constant  and  vindic 
tive  reprdach.  Well  do  I  remember  his  turning 
away  from  me  one  day,  muttering:  ( Curse  her! 
She  is  more  beautiful  than  the  day  I  married 
her;*  and  I  remember,  too,  just  what  a  re 
vengeful  thrill  of  happiness  flashed  over  me  as 

29 


The  Woman's  Story  of 

I  mentally  congratulated  myself,  that  I  was 
spared  something,  which  my  tyrannical  master 
had  been  unable  to  destroy.  Affairs  went  on 
at  this  rate  for  several  months,  when  suddenly 
there  entered  upon  the  scene  of  my  lonely 
existence  the  one  destined  to  forever  change 
its  tenor.  Well  do  I  remember  the  slightest 
details  connected  with  my  first  meeting  of 
Tronkhatchevsky,  of  whom  I  had  often  heard 
Posdnicheff  speak,  but  had  never  met,  owing  to 
the  fact  that  he  had  been  in  Paris  since  a  year 
previous  to  my  marriage.  I  remember  that  I 
was  looking  very  well  the  afternoon  that  Tronk 
hatchevsky  called,  and  I  remember  noting  the 
fact  with  satisfaction  after  he  had  gone.  Not 
that  I  cared  to  make  any  particular  impression 
upon  him,  other  than  the  desire  to  please,  which 
is  the  innate  characteristic  of  every  woman.  I 
remember,  also,  my  pleased  surprise  at  the  cor 
dial  invitation  Posdnicheff  tendered  him  to  re 
turn  the  same  evening  and  bring  his  violin; 
and  I  detected,  too,  what  one  less  acquainted 
with  Posdnicheff  would  have  failed  to  do,  viz., 
something  other  than  a  desire  to  enjoy  Tronk- 
hatchevsky's  company,  and  his  music  —  an  insane 

30 


Tolstoi's  Kreut^er  Sonata. 

desire  (born  of  furious  jealousy)  to  throw  his 
wife  into  the  society  of  another  man,  that  he 
might  secretly  observe  her  conduct.  Tronkhat- 
chevsky  was  the  sort  of  man  all  his  fellows 
must  admire.  Frank,  open,  and  generous  to  a 
fault.  His  face,  although  delicate,  was  strong, 
and  his  magnetic  eyes,  and  auburn  hair  which 
fell  artistically  across  his  brow,  were  the  eyes 
and  hair  which  belong  to  an  intense  and  highly 
poetical  temperament.  Although  a  genius,  he 
was  as  particular,  in  all  the  little  niceties  of 
dress  and  social  custom,  as  the  veriest  exquisite 
might  have  been.  As  I  now  look  back  upon 
the  first  evening  spent  in  his  society  I  wonder 
at  the  strange  fatality,  which  at  this  critical 
moment  impelled  Posdnicheff  to  throw  us  to 
gether.  I  knew  at  the  expiration  of  that  first 
evening,  that  should  circumstances  permit  (as 
they  bid  fair  to  do),  this  musician  must  neces 
sarily  fill  the  void  in  my  lonely  existence.  Not 
that  anything  tangible  presented  itself  to  my  mind, 
only  a  sense  of  real  comfort  experienced  in  his 
presence,  a  feeling  that  life  must  be  less  lonely 
for  knowing  him.  Long  afterward,  I  learned 


The  Woman's  Story  of 

that  this  intuition  was  mutual  with  Tronkhat- 
chevsky.  Whether  or  not  Posdnicheff  read  any 
thing  of  it  in  the  expression  of  either  of  our 
faces,  I  do  not  know;  but  he  watched  us 
narrowly  the  entire  evening,  and  I  noted  the 
expressions  of  jealousy  I  knew  so  well  contract 
his  countenance.  The  evening  passed  more 
pleasantly  to  me  than  any  I  had  spent  for  years. 
Tronkhatchevsky's  music,  played  with  the  spirit 
of  a  real  artist,  and  the  pleasure  of  accompan- 
ing  with  the  piano  a  violinist  such  as  he,  made 
the  evening  an  exceedingly  enjoyable  one  to 
me.  At  its  close,  I  was  somewhat  surprised  at 
the  intensity  of  Posdnicheff's  assumed  cordiality 
toward  Tronkhatchevsky,  and  his  pressing  invi 
tation  to  him  to  return  at  his  earliest  con 
venience.  Weeks  rapidly  grew  to  months,  and 
the  mutual  devotion  of  Tronkhatchevsky  and 
myself  to  music,  together  with  the  earnest  solici 
tations  of  Posdnicheff  that  he  should  visit  us 
often,  threw  us  frequently  in  each  other's  so 
ciety. }>  Here  the  nun  paused,  and  once  more 
pressed  her  hand  convulsively  to  her  left  side, 
as  though  to  suppress  a  sudden  pain.  Her 

32 


Tolstoi's  Krent^er  Sonata. 

colorless  lips  were  tightly  compressed,  and  her 
eyes  closed.  The  priest  trembled  as  he  looked 
at  her,  so  exactly  was  she  the  counterpart  of  a 
corpse. 


CHAPTER   III. 

TEN  minutes  elapsed  ere  the  strange  visitor 
resumed  her  story.  (<  Yes, w  she  continued,  (<  it 
is  useless  for  me  to  deny  that  ere  six  months 
passed  Tronkhatchevsky  was  the  very  sunshine 
of  my  existence.  In  a  thousand  nameless  and 
unobtrusive  ways,  he  caused  me  to  realize 
that  I  was  the  one  woman  in  all  the  world  to 
him;  and  after  all,  was  it  other  than  natural 
that  one  so  crushed,  so  abused,  so  tyrannized 
over  as  was  I,  should  reach  out  after  a  stray 
gleam  of  sunshine  that  chanced  to  cross  my 
darkened  pathway!  In  the  sight  of  God,  who 
justly  judges  His  creatures  by  their  motives, 
there  was  no  sin  in  this  love  which  was  spon 
taneous,  and  which  I  was  utterly  unable  to 
control. w  She  heaved  a  deep  sigh,  and  a  bitter 
smile  of  sarcasm  curled  her  white  lips  as  she 
3  33 


The  Woman's  Story  of 

exclaimed,  tt  Heaven  pity  deluded  women !  for 
dark  as  Erebus  is  the  sea  of  trouble  through 
which  they  must  pass,  ere  they  lose  entire 
faith  in  that  creature  so  unworthy  of  it — -man. 
Once  more  life  seemed  tinged  with  the  rain 
bow  gleams  of  bygone  days,  and  time  sped  on 
flower-tipped  wings,  when  suddenly,  as  a  storm 
cloud  gathers  in  a  clear  summer  sky,  so  the 
jealousy  of  Posdnicheff,  which  had  been  quietly 
strengthening,  burst,  in  all  its  awful  fury,  upon 
my  unprotected  head.  Posdnicheff  himself  had 
planned  for  a  dinner  after  which  the  guests 
were  to  be  entertained  by  Tronkhatchevsky's 
music.  With  seeming  interest  and  delight,  he 
had  busied  himself  in  sending  out  numerous 
invitations  to  his  chosen  guests,  as  well  as  by 
ordering  an  elaborate  menu,  when  suddenly,  a 
day  or  two  before  this  dinner  was  to  take 
place,  I  noted  a  change  in  him.  He  was  sullen 
and  morose,  and  I  guessed  immediately  that 
jealously  was  the  cause  of  it.  He  secluded 
himself  in  his  study,  and  I  decided  to  go  to 
him,  and  if  it  were  possible,  to  conciliate  him. 
I  entered  the  study,  and  looking  toward  me 
without  speaking,  he  lighted  a  cigarette,  and 

34 


Tolstoi's  Kreiit^er  Sonata. 

began  smoking.  Seating  myself  beside  him,  I 
leaned  my  head  against  his  shoulder,  exclaim 
ing,  ( Why  do  you  smoke  when  you  see  I  wish 
to  talk  to  you  ? >  He  recoiled  from  my  touch, 
with  a  look  of  hatred  and  disgust.  ( If  you  do 
not  wish  me  to  play  with  Tronkhatchevsky  I 
will  not  do  so, }  I  continued,  ( and  all  you  have 
to  do,  is  simply  to  write  our  invited  guests 
that  I  am  ill.-*  He  burst  into  a  volley  of  the 
most  horrible  oaths,  and  swore  that  I  had  dis 
graced  myself  and  dishonored  him.  Fiercely 
we  flung  vindictive  epithets,  until  seizing  me 
by  the  arm,  in  a  terrible  voice  he  roared:  (  Go 
before  I  kill  you. )  ( Are  you  mad  ?  >  I  cried. 
His  eyes  seemed  to  emit  sparks  of  fire,  as  with 
a  voice  hoarse  with  rage,  he  shrieked:  (  Go 
before  I  kill  you,*  and  seizing  a  heavy  paper 
weight,  he  threw  it  violently  at  my  feet,  and 
as  I  turned  to  fly,  hurled  after  me  a  massive 
candle-stick,  still  shouting  like  a  madman :  ( Go, 
I  tell  you  —  go  before  I  murder  you.* 

<(  I  became  unconscious,  remaining  so  for  hours ; 
I  learned  afterward,  that  I  laughed  and  wept 
alternately  during  all  this  period.  When  I 
again  grew  calm,  under  the  influence  of 

35 


The  Woman's  Story  of 

connubial  love,  my  husband  kissed  me  and  I 
forgave  him.  He  confessed  to  me  afterward, 
that  he  had  been  jealous  of  Tronkhatchevsky. 
He  decided,  however,  that  the  dinner  should  go 
on  as  planned,  lest  some  one  guess  the  real  con 
dition  of  affairs  (as  it  had  been  publicly  an 
nounced  that  we  were  to  play).  I  determined, 
however,  to  notify  Tronkhatchevsky  that  after 
this  dinner  all  intercourse  between  us  should 
cease.  The  opportunity  came  to  me  during  a 
rehearsal  which  occurred  the  evening  previous 
to  our  dinner,  and  from  which,  fortunately, 
Posdnicheff  chanced  to  be  absent.  God  alone 
knew  the  anguish  it  caused  me  to  voluntarily 
put  out  of  my  life  the  last  ray  of  sunshine  that 
was  ever  to  gladden  it.  To  murder  the  truest 
and  purest  sentiments  that  ever  bless  the  hu 
man  soul;  to  tear  myself  from  a  spirit  God 
and  nature  had  so  perfectly  attuned  in  every 
way  to  my  own,  and  all,  that  in  the  eyes  of  the 
world  I  might  obey  its  conventionalities,  by  re 
maining  loyal  to  the  man  who  had  forever 
cursed  and  blighted  my  life.  I  shall  never  for 
get  the  expression  upon  Tronkhatchevsky's 
handsome  face,'*  she  continued  dreamily,  "when 

36 


Tolstoi's  Kreiit^er  Sonata. 

I  made  known  to  him  the  scene  whieh  had 
occurred  between  Posdnicheff  and  myself,  and 
which  had  led  to  my  decision.  As  a  man 
might  plead  for  his  life,  so  he  plead  with  me 
to  relent,  but  I  remained  firm,  telling  him  that 
upon  the  morrow  we  should  meet  for  the  last 
time.  The  morrow  came,  and  with  it  our 
guests.  Dinner  passed  off  as  dinners  usually 
do,  and  then  followed  our  music.  I  seated 
myself  at  the  piano,  a  strange  pain  tugging  at 
my  heart.  For  the  last  time !  for  the  last  time ! 
seemed  to  ring  in  my  ears  like  a  funeral  dirge. 
I  was  trembling  so  violently  that  I  could 
scarcely  arrange  the  music.  I  am  certain  that 
Posdnicheff  noticed  my  extreme  nervousness, 
which  I  presume  he  considered  due  to  my  in 
ferior  talent,  and  the  difficult  accompaniment  I 
was  about  to  perform.  Doubtless  he  also  took 
note  of  the  manner  in  which  the  eyes  of 
Tronkhatchevsky  and  myself  were  riveted  upon 
each  other's  face  as  I  began  giving  the  pitch. 
Tronkhatchevsky  was  as  pale  as  death,  but  not 
a  muscle  of  his  face  betrayed  emotion,  and  his 
hand  was  perfectly  steady  as  he  drew  the  bow 
across  the  violin  He  leaned  toward  me  for  an 

37 


The  Woman's  Story  of 

instant,  under  the  pretense  of  a  suggestion  re 
garding  the  music.  ( Through  this  music  my 
soul  shall  commune  with  yours,'  he  whispered; 
and  the  music  we  were  about  to  perform  was 
indeed  that  in  which  every  passion  of  the  hu 
man  heart  is  portrayed  —  for  Beethoven,  like 
Shakespeare,  is  the  master  delineator  of  every 
human  passion,  and  the  piece  wre  were  about 
to  perform  was  Beethoven's  wonderful  Kreut- 
zer  Sonata.  If  ever  passion  was  portrayed  in 
music,  if  ever  one  soul  communed  with  another 
through  the  divine  melody  of  sound,  it  was 
mine  with  that  of  Tronkhatchevsky,  in  his  ex 
quisite  rendering  of  the  Kreutzer  Sonata.  My 
accompaniment  was  wholly  mechanical,  for  I 
was  completely  absorbed  in  the  poem  of  sweet 
sound  which  the  man  (whom  in  spite  of  my 
self)  I  so  tenderly  loved,  \vas  pouring  into  my 
soul.  That  first  presto  movement,  ah!  I  can 
hear  it  yet;  it  is  like  a  great  draught  of  wine, 
it  intoxicates.  The  very  soul  of  Tronkhatchev 
sky  mingled  with  that  of  mine  in  the  sweet 
waves  of  melody,  now  soft  and  pleading,  and 
anon  sobbing  with  passion.  All  the  music 
which  followed  this  during  the  evening  could 

3s 


Tolstoi's  Kreut^er  Sonata. 

not  for  an  instant  efface  its  impression.  It 
seemed  to  have  exerted  an  almost  hypnotic  in 
fluence  upon  me,  and  the  remainder  of  the 
evening  Tronkhatchevsky's  passion  for  me  as 
expressed  in  his  performance  of  that  wonderful 
Kreutzer  Sonata  seemed  to  envelop  me  like  a 
garment. 

WA  strange  feeling  of  desolation  came  over 
me,  as  upon  the  departure  of  our  last  guest,  I 
closed  the  piano;  a  dim,  half-conscious  feeling 
that  in  my  loneliness  I  should  never  care  to 
renew  the  remembrance  of  the  happy  hours 
with  which  the  piano  should  ever  be  associated. 
Two  days  dragged  wearily  by,  leaden  days, 
gray  with  regret,  and  longings  for  that  which  I 
had  voluntarily  put  out  of  my  life.  Days  dur 
ing  which  I  strove  with  eager  nervous  energy, 
to  engross  myself  with  the  children  and  house 
hold  affairs.  At  the  close  of  these,  Posdnicheff 
suddenly  announced  that  he  was  about  to  leave 
home  upon  business  which  was  to  detain  him 
about  a  week.  His  leaving  home  was  always 
a  cause  of  thanksgiving  upon  my  part,  but  it 
was  seldom  he  was  detained  longer  than  a 
couple  of  days.  His  absence  for  a  week  would 

39 


The  Woman's  Story  of 

have  been  a  source  of  unbounded  satisfaction 
to  me,  had  I  not  been  bitterly  depressed  over 
the  giving  up  of  Tronkhatchevsky,  toward 
whom,  in  spite  of  all  determination  otherwise, 
my  obdurate  heart  would  involuntarily  turn. 
The  morning  of  Posdnicheffs  departure,  there 
came  to  me  a  letter  in  a  familiar  hand,  the 
sight  of  which  sent  the  blood,  with  a  bound, 
from  heart  to  brain.  It  was  from  Tronkhat 
chevsky,  and  stated  that  he  had  bade  Posdnicheff 
farewell  that  morning  at  the  station,  and  that 
his  own  plans  were  arranged  for  an  immediate 
return  to  Paris,  in  all  probability  never  to  re 
visit  Russia.  Then  came  a  passionate  entreaty 
to  meet  him  once  more  for  a  final  farewell. 
The  intensity  of  this  man's  passion  for  me  was 
such  that  each  sentence  seemed  to  glow  in 
jewel-like  splendor.  How  long,  think  yon,  did 
my  cold  philosophical  reason  struggle  in  the 
current  of  such  a  passion  ?  My  will  once  so 
strong,  seemed  now  but  a  poor  wind-tossed 
reed;  and  as  one  starving  would  eagerly  grasp 
a  morsel  of  food,  so  I  hastened  to  let  this  man, 
for  whose  presence  I  would  have  sacrificed  my 
life,  know  that  on  the  morrow  he  might  come 

40 


Tolstoi's  Kreut^er  Sonata. 

to  me."  She  paused  as  if  for  breath,  and  her 
breathing  grew  difficult  and  labored,  while 
again  she  pressed  her  hand  convulsively  to  her 
left  side,  as  though  she  fain  would  still  a  pain 
that  was  well-nigh  unbearable.  (( Let  me 
hasten  over  this  part  of  my  experience  which 
it  almost  takes  my  life  to  relate, }>  she  resumed, 
her  voice  hoarse  with  emotion.  (<  The  following 
evening  Tronkhatchevsky  came;  and  as  I  look 
back  upon  that,  the  last  happy  evening  of 
my  life,  I  wonder  that  some  premonition 
did  not  come  to  me  that  I  was  upon  the  eve 
of  an  awful  tragedy.  But  no  —  naught  save 
the  knowledge  that  I  was  soon  to  part  from 
the  man  I  loved,  marred  those  moments  of 
perfect  bliss.  Ye  gods ! M  she  panted,  <(  how 
soon  it  was  all  over!  The  evening  had  flown 
so  rapidly  that  we  failed  to  note  the  lateness 
of  the  hour,  which  was  something  past  one 
o'clock.  Tronkhatchevsky  and  myself  had  re 
paired  to  the  dining-room  to  partake  of  some 
refreshments,  when  suddenly  the  door  opened 
and  we  were  confronted  by  Posdnicheff,  who,  pale 
as  death,  stood  with  hands  clasped  behind  him. 
Doubtless  the  countenance  of  Tronkhatchevsky 

41 


The  Woman's  Story  of 

and  myself  betrayed  a  mingled  expression  of 
surprise  and  fear,  with  perhaps  a  tinge  of  dis 
pleasure  at  this  sudden  interruption.  Tronk- 
hatchevsky  was  the  first  to  break  the  silence. 
<(We  have  been  practicing  some  music, w  he 
remarked ;  and  then  I  ventured  to  exclaim : 
w  You  are  back  sooner  than  you  expected  to 
be. w  Not  a  word  issued  from  the  white  lips  of 
Posdnicheff,  as  with  the  fury  of  a  madman  he 
threw  himself  upon  me,  endeavoring  to  secrete 
from  Tronkhatchevsky  the  dagger  which  he 
carried,  in  order,  doubtless,  that  he  might 
stab  me  in  the  throat  or  heart.  But  its  glit 
ter  attracted  Tronkhatchevsky's  attention,  and 
clutching  Posdnicheff 's  hands,  he  loudly  cried: 
(<  What  are  you  doing  ?  Are  you  mad  ?  Help ! 
help !  » 

<(  Never  have  I  seen  anything  to  compare  with 
the  hideousness  of  Posdnicheff's  face  as  he  tore 
his  hands  from  the  grasp  of  Tronkhatchevsky, 
and  threw  himself  heavily  upon  him;  but  the 
livid  face  and  purple  lips,  the  protruding  eyes 
and  glittering  dagger  never  swerved  me  for  an 
instant  from  my  determined  effort  to  save  the 
man  I  loved;  and  hurling  myself  upon  his  left 

42 


Tolstoi's  Kreut^er  Sonata. 

arm,  I  bore  down  heavily  upon  him.  He  strove 
to  throw  me  off,  but  I  bore  more  heavily  still, 
giving  Tronkhatchevsky  an  opportunity  to  escape 
with  his  life.  Summoning  all  his  strength,  Posd- 
nicheff  struck  me  full  in  the  face.  With  a 
scream  I  fell  upon  the  sofa,  crying  out :  ( There 
is  no  wrong  between  us !  None !  None !  I 
swear  it !  }  My  words  seemed  to  increase  his 
fury,  for  catching  me  by  the  throat  he  shook 
me  so  violently  as  to  almost  strangle  me.  With 
both  hands  I  clung  to  his,  endeavoring  to  tear 
them  from  my  throat,  when  suddenly  he  buried 
the  dagger  in  my  left  side  between  the  lower 
ribs.  My  God !  M  she  frantically  exclaimed,  her 
small  scarred  hand  pressing  against  the  spot 
where  the  fatal  dagger  had  pierced,  (<  there  has 
not  been  a  day,  not  even  an  hour,  since  then, 
that  I  have  not  felt  the  pain  of  that  dagger's 
plunge  just  as  I  felt  it  then.  I  clutched  at  the 
dagger  with  both  hands,  almost  severing  my 
fingers,  but  could  not  ward  off  the  blow.  How 
ever,  not  satisfied  with  as  he  supposed  murder 
ing  me,  he  dashed  me  from  the  couch  to  the 
floor,  and  planting  his  foot  on  my  face,  left 
thereupon  the  accursed  mutilation  which  was 

43 


The  Woman's  Story  of 

forever  to  mark  me  a  monstrosity  —  a  creature 
to  be  shunned  by  all  her  fellows.  I  have  a 
vague  recollection  at  this  juncture  of  the  old 
nurse  entering,  having  been  attracted  by  the 
noise;  then,  as  a  jet  of  blood  burst  forth,  for  a 
time  I  knew  no  more.  When  I  recovered  con 
sciousness,  the  first  thing  of  which  I  was  cog 
nizant  was  the  smell  of  antiseptics  in  the 
room,  and  the  next,  that  I  was  lying  upon  the 
bed  propped  up  very  high  with  cushions.  Just 
then  Posdnicheff  entered,  and  nearing  the  bed 
side,  stood  gazing  upon  me.  At  sight  of  him 
all  the  horror  of  the  past  scene  flashed  into  my 
mind,  and  I  remember  exclaiming  in  a  weak 
voice :  ( You  have  killed  me,  and  you  shall  not 
have  any  of  my  children;  they  shall  go  to  my 
sister.  I  hate  you !  Oh,  how  I  hate  you ! >  Then 
I  grew  very  cold  and  speechless.  I  knew  all 
that  was  going  on  about  me,  and  yet  was  power 
less  to  speak  or  move.  Fedorovich,  my  faithful 
physician,  of  whom  Posdnicheff  had  ever  been 
so  jealous,  came  to  the  bedside,  and  examining 
my  pulse,  exclaimed:  (  She  is  dead!'  Then  came 
all  the  hideous  preparations  of  death,  even  to 
the  placing  of  my  body  in  a  coffin.  Great  God! 

44 


Tolstoi's  Kreut^er  Sonata. 

my  tongue  is  powerless  to  utter  all  the  horror 
I  endured.  I  even  knew  when  the  shadows  of 
twilight  began  to  gather,  and  my  little  band  of 
weeping  children  were  led  from  the  room  by 
their  old  nurse,  leaving  me  alone  to  the  night 
and  the  horror  of  my  situation.  A  few  hours 
elapsed,  and  I  again  heard  footsteps  and  the 
sound  of  subdued  voices.  Nearer  and  nearer 
they  came,  until  they  paused  beside  my  coffin. 
One  was  the  voice  of  my  old  nurse,  the  other 
(although  somewhat  disguised)  was  the  voice 
which  to  me  there  was  none  other  like.  ( I 
came  here  at  the  request  of  Father  Lyof,  who 
is  too  ill  to  come  himself,*  the  soft,  musical  voice 
went  on  to  explain.  ( I  am  the  priest  from  a 
neighboring  village.*  The  old  nurse  crossed 
herself  reverently  in  his  presence,  and  left  him, 
as  she  supposed,  alone  with  the  dead.  Gently 
he  lifted  the  cloths  from  my  bruised,  discolored 
face,  and  gazed  down  upon  me.  ( Great  Heav 
ens  ! *  he  exclaimed,  and  started  back  in  surprise. 
Was  I  so  hideous,  then,  that  even  he  recoiled 
from  me  ?  was  the  thought  which  first  suggested 
itself.  He  lifted  my  cold,  bandaged  hands, 
stroking  them  caressingly  as  he  murmured: 

45 


The  Woman's  Story  of 

(  Poor,  poor  girl !  who  would  have  ever  dreamed 
of  this  ?  Ah  God !  gladly  I  would  give  my  life 
to  recall  yours  for  a  single  moment.' 

(<  How  his  touch  thrilled  me !  Little  waves  of 
electricity  seemed  to  flash  down  my  frozen 
veins.  He  leaned  forward  and  kissed  me,  and 
I  felt  a  great  tear-drop  splash  upon  my  face. 
This  tear-drop  of  human  sympathy,  this  mag 
netic  caress  from  the  man  I  adored,  seemed  to 
infuse  within  me  a  new  life.  I  put  forth  a  tre 
mendous  effort,  a  great  sigh  escaped  my  lips, 
which  caused  Tronkhatchersky  to  bend  eagerly 
over  the  coffin.  (  Save  me ! )  I  faintly  gasped ! 
( Merciful  Heaven ! )  he  exclaimed,  ( they  are 
burying  her  alive ! )  He  lifted  my  head,  and 
held  me  for  an  instant  in  his  strong  embrace. 
( Thank  God  that  I  am  in  time  to  rescue  you !  > 
he  whispered  hurriedly.  ( But,  remember,  all 
depends  upon  perfect  silence  on  your  part.  Be 
strong,  darling.  In  one  hour  I  will  return,  and 
then,  you  are  mine,  mine  forever! }  How  his 
words  echoed  and  re-echoed  throughout  my 
brain!  From  the  depths  of  Hades  I  had  sud 
denly  been  ushered  into  Heaven.  The  loathsome 
coffin,  in  which  the  most  terrible  moments  of 

46 


((HE    LIFTED    MK    FROM    THE    COKFIN    AS    THOIC.H    1     HAD 
BEEN    A    CHILD. w 


Tolstoi's  Kreut^er  Sonata. 

my  life  had  been  spent,  suddenly  became  a 
downy  couch  of  sweetest  repose.  The  fear,  the 
horror  of  it  all  had  vanished;  for  had  it  not 
given  to  me  my  lover  ?  To  my  confused  brain 
I  seemed  actually  to  have  been  dead,  so  vivid 
was  my  remembrance  of  the  awful  murder 
scene,  so  horribly  real  the  comatose  condition 
from  which  I  was  recovering.  Once  during  the 
absence  of  Tronkhatchevsky,  the  old  nurse  came 
into  the  room,  and  I  trembled,  lest  she  detect 
the  loud  throbbing  of  my  heart,  but  no,  she 
simply  snuffed  the  candles,  relighted  a  few 
others,  and  went  her  way  again.  Just  before 
the  arrival  of  Tronkhatchevsky,  every  moment 
seemed  an  age,  all  sorts  of  weird  fancies  and 
wild  forebodings  took  possession  of  me.  When 
he  did  finally  arrive,  he  entered  the  room  so 
stealthily  that  I  was  not  aware  of  his  presence 
until  he  stood  at  my  side.  (  Courage,  dearest ! ) 
he  whispered.  (A  few  moments  more,  and  all 
will  be  well.'  He  placed  a  heavy  sack  on  the 
floor  beside  me,  and  returned  almost  imme 
diately,  bearing  another  of  equal  weight.  Plac 
ing  it  beside  the  first,  he  lifted  me  from  the 
coffin  as  though  I  had  been  a  child,  and  so 

47 


77/6'  Woman's  Story  of 

quick  and  deft  were  his  movements  that  ere  I 
was  aware  of  it,  I  found  myself  in  a  close  cab 
which  was  in  near  waiting.  I  learned  after 
ward  that  the  sacks  contained  one  hundred  and 
thirty  pounds  of  lead,  and  that  Tronkhatchevsky 
hurriedly  placed  them  in  the  coffin,  taking  care 
to  put  on  the  lid,  which  he  screwed  tightly 
down.  Having  completed  his  plan,  he  imme 
diately  sought  the  old  nurse,  to  whom  he  gave 
strict  charge,  that  upon  no  condition  whatever 
was  the  lid  to  be  removed  from  the  coffin: 
( For, >  he  explained,  ( not  only  is  the  body 
beginning  to  decompose,  but  it  is  sacrilegious 
thus  to  expose  the  mutilated  countenance  of  a 
murdered  woman  to  the  gaze  of  the  curious; 
and  when  the  undertaker  arrives  upon  the  mor 
row,  say  to  him,  my  good  woman,  that  this  is 
the  priest's  command. )  Reverently  crossing 
herself,  the  old  woman  assured  the  supposed 
priest  that  his  order  should  be  executed,  for  to 
the  pious  Catholic  a  priest's  slightest  wish  is 
not  to  be  disregarded,  and  hence,  relieved  of 
all  forebodings  upon  that  score,  Tronkhat 
chevsky  sprang  lightly  into  the  cab,  and  drove 
rapidly  away. w 

4s 


Tolstoi's  Kreut^er  Sonata. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

<(  I  NO  sooner  entered  the  carriage  than  I  be 
came  again  totally  unconscious,  and  so  precarious 
was  my  condition  that  to  drive  farther  than  the 
neighboring  village  would  have  been  to  still 
more  surely  endanger  my  life.  Tronkhatchevsky, 
too,  was  running  a  risk,  by  remaining  longer  in 
Russia;  and  in  his  priest's  garb  he  cautiously 
entered  a  private  hospital,  where  he  deposited 
a  sufficient  sum  to  insure  me  the  best  treat 
ment,  and  imposed  upon  the  credulity  of  the 
institution  to  such  an  extent  as  to  lead  them  to 
believe  that  I  was  an  only  sister,  who  having 
met  with  a  severe  accident,  he  intrusted  to  their 
care  during  an  absence  on  his  part,  compelled 
by  most  pressing  ecclesiastical  duties.  He  also 
succeeded  in  so  profoundly  impressing  them  in 
his  favor,  that  they  bade  him  an  almost  affec 
tionate  adieu,  tendering  him  implicit  assurance 
that  his  most  minute  directions  should  be  faith 
fully  executed,  one  of  which  was  to  notify  him 
daily  of  my  condition,  and  should  I  recover,  to 
send  me  in  the  care  of  a  competent  nurse  to 
4.  49 


The  Woman's  Story  of 

his  address  in  Paris.  Never  shall  I  forget  my 
convalescence,"  she  continued,  while  her  eyes 
took  on  a  far-away  expression.  <(  Never  shall  I 
forget  the  impatience  with  which  I  waited  the 
letters  that  came  so  regularly  from  Tronkhat- 
chevsky,  nor  my  feverish  longing  for  the  day 
upon  which  I  was  to  go  to  him.  The  past 
seemed  a  blank  to  me.  Even  my  children  were 
forgotten.  I  was  as  one  resurrected  from  the 
dead;  a  new  life,  roseate-hued  with  youthful 
dreams  seemed  to  stretch  itself  before  me.  One 
of  my  foibles  (perhaps  the  chief)  was  pride  in 
my  personal  appearance;  but  upon  my  first  dis 
covery  that  my  hands  (which  were  my  especial 
pride)  had  been  scarred  and  disfigured  forever, 
I  immediately  set  about  to  discover  if  fate  had 
dealt  more  kindly  with  my  face;  but  a  mirror 
was  promptly  refused  me,  and  I  had  only  the 
beauty  of  my  magnificent  hair  with  which  to 
console  myself.  I  was  totally  ignorant  of  the 
fact  that  not  only  was  my  beauty  of  counte 
nance  destroyed,  but  that  I  had  been  rendered 
positively  revolting;  and  when  the  truth  was 
first  revealed  to  me,  and  from  the  mirror,  in 
stead  of  the  pink  and  white  beauty  so  pleasing 

50 


"Tolstoi's  Kreut^er  Sonata. 

to  my  sight,  there  stared  back  at  me  a  hideous, 
blanched,  and  disfigured  face,  I  wept  for  days 
and  nights,  refusing  to  be  comforted,  lest  the 
awful  change  lessen  the  love  of  him  whom  I 
now  so  madly  worshipped.  Long,  tear-stained 
letters  I  wrote  to  him,  letters  in  which  I  laid 
bare  all  the  anguish  of  my  tortured  soul,  all  my 
fears,  and  misgivings,  and  it  was  not  until  strong, 
comforting  letters  in  his  own  familiar  hand  were 
returned  to  me,  that  my  sorrow  was  lessened, 
and  once  more, —  I  dared  to  hope. 

<(As  I  look  back  upon  that  morning,  more  than 
thirty  years  ago,  when  I  quitted  Russia  forever, 
it  seems  to  me  a  whole  lifetime  has  elapsed. 
For  months,  my  every  thought  had  been  one 
continued  dream  of  meeting  Tronkhatchevsky. 
In  my  weakened  physical  condition,  I  was  as 
one  who  had  been  hypnotized.  I  seemed  to 
feel  and  see  only  through  Tronkhatchevsky. 
My  great,  absorbing  passion  for  him  had  de 
prived  me  of  my  personality,  woman's  chief 
charm.  My  love  was  a  morbid,  consuming  pas 
sion,  which  for  the  time  dwarfed,  as  it  were, 
my  mentality.  As  I  look  back  upon  that  mis 
erable,  pitiful  moment  of  ecstatic  bliss,  when  in 

51 


The  Woman's  Story  of 

Paris  I  was  once  more  reunited  to  Tronkhatchev- 
sky,  every  fibre  of  my  body  tingles  with  scorn. 
It  is  unnecessary  for  me  to  detail  our  meeting. 
It  would  have  been  the  one  supreme  moment 
of  my  life,  had  there  not  weighed  heavily  upon 
me  the  fear  lest  my  lover's  devotion  be  lessened 
through  my  loss  of  beauty.  I  was  heavily  veiled, 
and  for  hours  refused  every  entreaty  upon  his 
part  to  uncover  my  face.  The  sound  of  his  soft 
musical  voice  thrilled  me  with  foolish  ecstasy. 
I  was  mad  with  joy  to  feel  his  arms  about  me 
once  more,  to  hear  him  whisper  sweet  nothings 
which  to  me  meant  everything;  to  listen  to  his 
praise  of  my  voice  —  my  exquisite  form;  to  hear 
his  ardent  assurance  that  no  physical  change 
could  ever  in  the  least  affect  his  devotion  to 
me,  and  with  his  arms  close  about  me  to  hear 
him  call  me  his  own.  His  —  entirely  and  com 
pletely  his —  I  who  had  been  dead  and  was  now 
resurrected  that  I  might  live  again,  as  it  were, 
in  another  world.  Ah!  the  mad  joy  of  the  mo 
ment  was  too  intense  to  last.*'  She  paused, 
panting  for  breath;  a  strange  light  gleamed  in 
her  eyes,  wrhich  suddenly  faded  away,  giving 
place  to  a  look  of  bitter  scorn.  <(  Bah ! }>  she 

52 


'Tolstoi's  Kreut^er  Sonata. 

continued  with  a  shudder,  <(  why  recall  all  this  ? 
But, w  she  slowly  added,  while  a  bitter  laugh  es 
caped  her  white  lips,  (<  what  matters  it  after  all 
to  one  whose  heart  has  turned  to  stone  ? 
Swiftly  as  the  approach  of  a  hurricane,  happi 
ness  gave  place  to  despair.  I  lifted  the  veil 
from  my  face,  and  Tronkhatchevsky  positively 
recoiled  from  my  presence.  There  was  a  look 
of  horror  upon  his  handsome  face,  which  he 
was  plainly  struggling  to  conceal.  He  arose 
with  bowed  head,  his  long,  white  fingers  cover 
ing  his  beautiful  eyes,  and  walking  slowly  across 
the  room,  paused  at  the  door.  ( Poor  maimed 
darling !  >  he  exclaimed,  ( I  am  totally  unpre 
pared  for  this — I  must  be  alone  for  a  little 
while. )  And  with  the  look  of  horror  upon  his 
face,  he  unceremoniously  left  the  room.  It  was 
the  last  time  I  ever  beheld  him.  Swift  as  an 
electric  stroke  was  the  metamorphosis  I  under 
went.  From  a  loving,  trusting  woman,  I  was 
transformed  to  a  creature  whose  hatred  for  man 
was  so  fierce  as  to  almost  consume  my  vitality. 
I  tarried  not  a  moment  in  Paris,  but  quitted  it 
forever,  and  coming  immediately  to  England, 
entered  this  neighboring  convent  as  a  nun,  and 

53 


The  Woman'?.  Story  of 

here  for  thirty  years  I  have  tried  in  vain  to  live 
a  life  of  holiness  and  peace;  tried  in  vain  to 
conquer  my  hatred  for  your  sex,  sufficiently,  at 
least,  to  seek  absolution  through  the  Confessional ; 
but  not  until  I  beheld  your  life  of  lowliness  and 
self-sacrifice,  could  I  bring  myself  to  believe 
that  any  goodness  dwelt  in  man;  and  to  you, 
and  you  only,  I  felt  that  I  could  reveal  the  his 
tory  of  my  shattered  life."  The  sweet  passion 
ate  voice  had  ceased  its  story,  and  the  monk 
with  bowed  head  conducted  her  to  the  Confess 
ional. 

(<  Ego  te  absolve  a  peccatis  tuis  in  nomine 
Patris,  et  Felii,  et  Spiritus  Sancti.  Amen.* 
His  words  were  broken  by  sobs,  but  they 
brought  sweet  peace  to  the  tired  spirit  of  the 
nun.  Issuing  from  the  Confessional,  the  monk 
exclaimed :  (<  Daughter,  since  both  you  and  I 
have  forsworn  all  mortal  passion,  I  would  free 
your  heart  of  its  bitterness  toward  the  man 
who  with  you  has  sinned.  I  would  not  shield 
him,  for  his  sin  has  been  greater  than  yours, 
and  his  suffering  equal;  and  yet,  you  were 
hasty  in  your  misjudgment  of  him.  He  sought 
you  all  over  Europe,  and  finding  you  not,  his 

54 


Tolstoi's  Kreut^er  Sonata. 

entire  life  has  been  devoted  to  ministering  to 
others. w  ((  Do  you  know  whereof  you  speak  ?  w 
asked  the  nun  with  a  queer  tremor  in  her 
voice.  The  monk  lifted  his  head,  and  the  two 
looked  at  each  other.  All  traces  of  age  and 
sorrow  in  the  face  of  the  Benedictine  seemed 
suddenly  to  have  disappeared.  True,  the  hair 
on  his  brow  was  snowy  and  thin;  the  long 
fingers,  once  so  white  and  shapely,  were  now 
hard  and  worn  with  toil;  the  master  hand  of 
the  artist  had  lost  its  cunning;  but  the  beauti 
ful  eyes,  which  in  the  long  ago  had  found  their 
way  into  the  heart  of  Posdnicheff's  wife  were 
the  same.  The  face,  too,  at  this  instant  wore 
its  old  familiar  aspect,  save  that  it  was  spirit 
ualized,  glorified,  shining,  as  it  were,  with  an 
ethereal  light.  With  a  glad  cry  of  recognition 
the  nun  sprang  to  her  feet,  and  the  two  stood 
gazing  into  each  other's  faces  in  mute  rapture. 
They  were  like  two  spirits  of  another  world, 
who  having  undergone  the  mysteries  of  life 
and  death,  stood  calmly  looking  back  upon  it 
all.  There  was  not  a  vestige  of  earthly  passion 
in  the  riveted  gaze  which  so  plainly  reflected 
the  splendor  of  their  mutual  love;  and  as  death 

55 


Story  of  Tolstoi's  Kreut^er  Sonata. 

ofttimes  destroys  the  lines  of  age  upon  a  face, 
and  imprints  upon  the  frozen  image  a  smile, 
so,  by  some  strange  revulsion,  at  this  eventful 
moment  the  poor  scarred  face  of  the  nun  as 
sumed  its  old-time  beauty.  These  people,  who 
had  suffered  so  long  and  so  deeply,  who  loved 
each  other  with  an  exalted  passion  seldom 
known  to  mortals,  and  who  were  soon  to  part 
forever,  stood  looking  into  each  other's  eyes  as 
though  they  fain  \vould  gaze  forever.  It  was  a 
marriage  of  soul,  and  the  union  was  complete. 
They  did  not  even  clasp  hands  in  parting;  their 
love  was  too  high,  too  exalted,  to  partake  of 
aught  that  was  earthly.  For  one  brief  instant 
the  nun  knelt  at  the  feet  of  the  monk  for  his 
blessing.  (<  Bendicat  vos  omnipoteus  Deus, 
Pater,  et  Filius,  et  Spiritus  Sanctus,*  he  slowly 
repeated.  "Amen,*  came  the  reverent  re 
sponse;  and  swiftly  and  silently  the  slight, 
dark-robed  figure  glided  out  into  the  night, 
and  away  from  his  presence  forever. 


[Reprinted    through    the    courtesy    of    «  Frank    Leslie's    Popular 
Monthly. »] 


ROMANCE  OF  A  KENTUCKIAN 
IN  ST.  AUGUSTINE 

«  «  « 
CHAPTER  I. 

fHE  season  at  St.  Augustine  was  at  its  height, 
and  the  Ponce  de  Leon  thronged  with  gay 
pleasure  seekers,  with  a  small  scattering  of 
their  less  fortunate  fellows,  who  hoped  in  the 
balmy  sea  air  of  the  quaint  little  Spanish  city 
to  woo  back  the  fickle  goddess,  health. 

In  the  spacious  dining  salon,  where  each 
artistic  appointment  breathes  the  rich  sensuous 
Renaissance  spirit,  at  a  table  near  one  of  the 
great  oak  pillars  supporting  the  dome  sat  a 
man  of  such  Herculean  form  and  beauty  of 
countenance  as  is  found  most  often  among  the 
men  of  Kentucky.  Magnificently  proportioned, 
he  carried  himself  like  a  god;  his  regal  head 
was  poised  upon  a  full  round  throat;  his  gray 

57 


Romance  of  a  Kentuckian 

eyes,  changeable  with  emotion,  smiled  from 
beneath  a  broad  low  brow,  smooth  and  white 
as  a  woman's,  and  about  which  clustered  rich, 
slightly  curling  brown  hair,  while  above  a  pair 
of  beautiful  red  lips  curled  a  perfectly  kept 
golden-brown  mustache. 

This  magnificent  Adonis  of  the  famous  Blue 
Grass  region  of  Kentucky  bore  the  sensation 
his  appearance  always  created  with  the  utmost 
sang-froid.  While  awaiting  his  dinner  order,  al 
though  seemingly  absorbed  in  the  allegorical 
illustrations  of  the  stained  glass  windows  oppo 
site  him,  he  nevertheless  started  perceptibly  as 
a  tall,  beautiful  blonde,  together  with  an  elderly 
woman,  entered  the  dining-room. 

Grace  Ashmore  was  a  beauty,  an  heiress,  and 
withal,  a  heartless  coquette,  although  her 
friends  credited  her  with  at  last  having  sur 
rendered  her  heart  (if  she  possessed  that  seem 
ingly  unnecessary  and  unfashionable  appendage 
of  the  nineteenth  century)  to  the  young  Ken 
tuckian,  who  was  far  handsomer  than  any  of 
the  New  Yorkers  who  had  followed  the  beauti 
ful  heiress  to  the  Ponce;  moreover,  he  combined 
with  esprit  and  faultless  manners  a  certain 


in  St.  Augustine. 

warmth  and  enthusiasm  which  characterize  the 
men  of  Kentucky.  It  was  as  if  he  had  ab 
sorbed  something  of  the  sunshine  of  his  native 
land,  something  of  the  beauty  and  massiveness 
of  its  splei\did  fields  and  rolling  meadows. 

From  the  minstrels'  gallery  above,  sweet 
music  floated  down  the  vast  brilliantly  lighted 
dining-room,  and  as  Grace  Ashmore  quitted  it, 
she  seemed  in  her  undulating,  serpentine  grace 
a  very  poem  set  to  the  melody  of  sound. 
Throwing  a  light  fleecy  wrap  about  her  shoul 
ders,  she  stepped  into  the  outer  court  with  her 
chaperon,  where  she  was  speedily  joined  by 
the  handsome  Kentuckian,  George  Allen  Van 
Zant. 

It  was  a  perfect  February  night  and  the 
tropical  splendor  of  the  court  brilliant  with  its 
brightly  colored  flowers,  its  electric  fountains, 
gleaming  like  strands  of  rainbow  colored  gems; 
its  vines  from  which  depended  myriads  of 
bright-hued  blossoms;  its  graceful  palmettos, 
and  over  all  its  oriental  splendor  and  glowing 
beauty;  the  wafted  odor  of  its  wilderness  of 
roses,  mingled  with  the  faint  perfume  of  the 
orange  grove  beyond,  made  it  a  very  Eden  for 

59 


Romance  of  a  Kentuckian 

lovers,  even  though  encumbered  by  a  chap 
eron.  Strolling  through  the  court  chatting 
gaily,  the  trio  came  suddenly  upon  a  little 
crouching  figure,  whose  flowing  blue -black 
tresses  were  picturesquely  crowned  with  a 
wreath  of  scarlet  pomegranite  blossoms,  and 
whose  small  daintily  poised  head  was  turned 
sidewise,  canary-like,  to  catch  every  strain  of 
music  with  which  the  orchestra  was  flooding  the 
Ponce. 

<(A  pretty  picture,  and  well  deserving  this 
oriental  setting, w  murmured  the  chaperon  point 
ing  toward  the  child. 

(<  That  is  Petronilla  Pedro,  a  little  Spanish 
flower  girl  who  is  music  mad,"  replied  the 
Kentuckian. 

At  the  sound  of  approaching  voices  the  child 
sprang  to  her  feet,  bearing  lightly  upon  her 
arm  a  basket  of  flowers.  Recognizing  the 
handsome  Kentuckian,  who  was  not  only  a  lib 
eral  purchaser  of  her  posies,  but  whom  upon 
learning  the  little  maiden's  passion  for  music, 
had  promised  her  lessons  of  the  Cathedral 
organist,  she  smilingly  approached  him  and 
timidly  tendered  him  a  beautiful  tea-rose. 

60 


in  St.  Augustine. 

Touching  the  little  flower-crowned  head  ten 
derly  he  offered  her  a  coin,  but  she  folded  her 
tiny  brown  hands  across  her  breast,  and  shak 
ing  her  head  replied:  (<  It  is  a  gift. M  Thanking 
her  kindly  the  young  man  turned  towards 
Grace  Ashmore  and  would  have  fastened  the 
rose  in  her  wealth  of  golden  hair,  but  the  small 
Petronilla  anticipated  his  movement,  and  spring 
ing  toward  him  with  the  ferocity  of  a  young 
tigress,  snatched  the  rose  from  his  hand,  scat 
tered  the  petals  upon  the  ground,  and  stamping 
them  under  her  tiny  feet  fled  rapidly  from  the 
court. 

<(Whew, w  whistled  the  nonplussed  young  man, 
(<  my  little  protegee  seems  to  have  misunderstood 
my  attempted  reverence  for  her  gift.  I  wish  I 
could  overtake  and  console  her. w  A  peal  of 
merry  laughter  greeted  his  remark.  <(  Nonsense, 
Colonel  Van  Zant,}>  replied  the  beautiful  Grace, 
(<  Do  you  not  see  that  the  little  vixen  is  jealous 
of  me?" 

<(  Jealous !  M  reiterated  the  young  man  incred 
ulously,  <(Why  she  is  but  a  baby." 

<(Yes,  jealous, w  laughed  the  beauty.  (<A  little 
Spanish  woman  in  embryo;  and  I  promise  you, 

61 


Romance  of  a  Kentuckian 

were  she  grown  up,  I  would  not  care  to  have 
such  a  fury  cross  my  pathway.  Why  the  little 
monster's  eyes  gleamed  vengeance  and  destruc 
tion.  » 

Meanwhile  the  <(  Little  Monster, }>  as  the  fair 
New  Yorker  termed  her,  was  speeding  down 
the  street  with  throbbing  heart  and  tear-wet 
eyes.  On  —  on  she  went,  never  pausing  until 
she  reached  the  sea  wall,  where  she  suddenly 
stopped,  and  kneeling  down,  gazed  far  out  sea 
ward;  for  to  the  child,  over  that  vast  expanse 
of  water,  there  seemed  ever  to  linger  a  sadness, 
in  harmony  with  her  own  lonely  little  life. 
Suddenly  a  pair  of  strong  hands  lifted  the  sob 
bing  child  to  her  feet  and  a  kindly  voice 
exclaimed,  <(  Heigho !  little  girl,  are  you  crying 
because  you  couldn't  sell  your  posies  ? w  and 
thrusting  twice  the  price  of  the  flowers  into  her 
hand,  he  was  gone.  It  was  a  handsome  face 
that  looked  down  into  that  of  the  little  flower 
girl,  but  it  was  not  the  face  of  George  Van 
Zant,  and  the  sobbing  little  creature  was  in  no 
wise  comforted;  for  this  small  "music  madw 
Spanish  maiden  was  desperately  and  passion 
ately  in  love  with  the  handsome  Kentuckian. 

62 


in  St.  Augustine. 

CHAPTER  II. 

THE  following  day,  and  indeed  for  several 
successive  days,  did  George  Van  Zant  haunt  the 
courts  of  the  Ponce,  hoping  to  meet  and  con 
ciliate  the  little  creature  whose  feelings  he  had 
so  unwittingly  outraged.  It  was  not,  however, 
until  a  week  subsequent,  when  strolling  alone 
in  the  vicinity  of  the  Old  Fort  that  he  chanced 
across  her. 

(<  Roses!  —  fresh  roses !w  called  the  clear  treble 
child  voice;  and  then,  finding  herself  face  to 
face  with  her  hero,  rich  waves  of  color  rushed 
to  the  little  olive  face,  and  the  great  star-like 
eyes  filled  with  tears. 

(<  Petronilla !  what  have  I  done  to  offend  you 
that  you  shun  me  thus  ?  w  asked  the  young  man 
drawing  her  to  him.  If  you,  my  reader,  could 
have  listened  to  the  music  of  the  man's  voice, 
could  have  looked  upon  the  beauty  of  his  face, 
the  magnificence  of  his  form,  and  could  have 
felt  the  magnetism  of  his  presence,  you  would 
not  have  wondered  at  the  pair  of  little  brown 
hands  which  clasped  themselves  about  his  neck, 
and  the  broken  little  voice  which  sobbed  out:  — 

63 


Romance  of  a  Keniuckian 

<(  I  love  you  —  and  you  —  you  —  love  her  —  the 
woman  to  whom  you  would  have  given  my 
rose,"  and  then  withdrawing  herself  from  his 
embrace,  with  a  quaint  touch  of  dignity,  mingled 
with  something  of  the  fierceness  which  ran  riot 
in  her  Spanish  blood,  stamping  her  little,  arched 
foot  like  a  tragedy  queen,  she  exclaimed:  — 

«  I  hate  her !  I  hate  her !  »  «  Listen  Petronilla, 
you  little  untamed  wild  bird,w  exclaimed  the 
young  man  persuasively,  (( do  you  not  know  that 
the  beautiful  woman  to  whom  I  would  have 
given  your  rose  is  my  promised  wife  ?  and  who 
knows  but  that  she  might  learn  to  love  you  as 
I  do,  and  then  we  M  — 

(( Never !  Never !  w  fiercely  interrupted  the 
child.  <(  I  hate  her.  I  would  murder  her,*  and 
throwing  herself  at  his  feet,  she  wept  as  though 
her  very  heart  would  break,  and  as  the  young 
man  gazed  down  upon  the  agonized  little  form 
at  his  feet,  he  felt  he  would  have  given  much 
to  have  seen  one  tithe  of  the  sentiment  this 
child  felt  for  him  expressed  by  the  cold  beauti 
ful  woman  who  had  promised  to  become  his 
wife.  Suddenly,  as  though  she  had  evolved 
some  revelation,  she  sprang  to  her  feet,  her 

64 


((  I  l.OVK  VUT,  AND  YOU YOU  I.OYE  HER. M 


in  St.  Augustine. 

dark   tear-gemmed    eyes    sparkling,    and    seizing 
both  the  young  man's  hands,  exclaimed:  — 

<(  Seignior,  she  will  never  become  your  wife, 
never  —  never;  something  tells  me  so.  Then 
when  I  am  quite  grown  up  you  will  find  me, 
and  I  will  marry  you." 

Pleased  that  the  child's  fancy  should  be  of 
comfort  to  her,  he  replied:  — 

<(  Yes,  Petronilla,  if  my  promised  wife  proves 
me  false,  I  will  never  marry  unless  I  marry 
you;  and  now,  as  I  go  away  to-morrow,  what 
shall  I  give  my  little  sweetheart  by  which  to 
remember  me  most  pleasantly  ?  w 

<(A  ring,  Seignior, w  replied  the  child  gravely, 
<(  I  will  wear  it  until  you  come  for  me. w 

The  pretty  turquoise  ring  which  the  young 
man  bought  and  placed  upon  the  finger  of  his 
devoted  little  protegee  was  not  his  only  gift  to 
her.  The  Cathedral  organist  received  a  year's 
tuition,  with  instructions  to  teach  the  (<  music 
mad"  little  maiden  to  sing;  and  when,  two 
years  later,  the  little  girl's  pure,  beautiful  so 
prano  rang  out  through  the  old  Cathedral,  as 
clear  and  as  sweet  as  a  trill  from  the  mocking 
birds  she  loved  to  imitate,  so  entranced  with 
5  65 


Romaiice  of  a  Kentuckian 

her  voice  became  a  wealthy  Englishwoman  that 
she  carried  the  little  Southern  song-bird  back  to 
her  English  home,  there  to  give  her  the  advan 
tages  of  which  she  must  have  otherwise  been 
deprived. 


CHAPTER  111. 

THE  Opera  House  at  Lexington  (fairest  city 
of  all  the  fair  ones  in  the  grand  old  State  of 
Kentucky)  was  filled  to  overflowing  with  an 
audience  eager  to  hear  the  new  songstress,  who 
had  taken  Europe  by  storm  and  who  upon  com 
ing  to  New  York  had  sung  to  crowded  and 
enthusiastic  audiences  for  a  week,  when  she 
suddenly  and  capriciously  threw  up  her  engage 
ment,  declaring  that  she  would  make  a  tour  of 
Kentucky  at  once,  or  return  to  Europe;  and 
her  long-suffering  manager,  driven  to  despera 
tion  through  the  fear  of  losing  her,  had  been 
compelled  to  accept  her  conditions. 

The  rising  curtain  revealed  to  the  eager  Ken 
tucky  audience  the  slight,  beautiful,  rounded 
figure  of  a  young  girl  whose  delicate  oval  face 

66 


<(THK    SLIGHT,    HKAUTIKl  JJ.Y    ROIMJKI)    l-'IGURK    OF 
A    YOUNG    GIRL.  » 


in  St.  Augustine. 

seemed  almost  child-like,  and  whose  dark  velvet 
eyes  glanced  inquiringly  over  the  audience,  as 
though  seeking  some  familiar  face.  Suddenly 
her  eyes  rested  upon  a  figure  kingly  in  its  mag 
nificence,  and  crowned  with  the  head  and  face 
of  an  Adonis;  rested  long  and  earnestly,  as 
though  fain  to  rest  there  forever.  The  entire 
audience  watched  the  prima  donna  with  intense 
admiration  (with  the  exception  of  the  one  man 
upon  whom  she  gazed  as  though  fascinated,  and 
unable  to  turn  away).  Suddenly  he  looked  at 
her,  but  in  his  great  luminous  eyes  there  was 
not  the  slightest  gleam  of  recognition,  nor  even 
of  interest;  he  glanced  at  her  coldly  and  turned 
away.  Every  vestige  of  color  faded  from  the 
girl's  face.  She  stood  before  her  audience  color 
less  as  a  bit  of  sculptured  marble.  The  orches 
tra  had  ended  its  prelude  and  was  waiting  for 
her.  It  recalled  her  to  herself,  and  the  voice 
which  fell  upon  the  ears  of  the  listening  audi 
ence  thrilled  with  such  rich,  passionate  pathos, 
such  tender,  plaintive  appeal  that  there  were 
many  tear-wet  eyes  when  the  curtain  fell. 

"Quick,*    demanded    the    prima   donna   of   an 
attendant    (while   the   orchestra  played  between 

67 


Romance  of  a  Kentuchian 

the  acts),  (C  bring  here  the  Opera  House  man 
ager  until  I  speak  to  him. w  Her  command  was 
no  sooner  spoken  than  obeyed. 

<(At  your  service, w  exclaimed  the  manager  of 
the  Opera  House,  bowing  low. 

<(  Tell  me,  quick ! w  exclaimed  the  girl  imperi 
ously,  (<  The  man  in  the  box,  to  the  right,  is  it 
George  Van  Zant ? w 

(<  It  is  Colonel  Van  Zant,  Miss, w  was  the  re 
ply.  (<  He  is  an  old-time  friend  of  mine,"  she 
replied,  C(  tell  me  of  him,  is  he  married  ? w 

<(  Married  ?  No ! w  answered  the  manager. 
<(  He  was  to  have  married  a  beautiful  New 
Yorker,  they  say,  but  about  ten  years  ago  a 
spell  of  illness  left  him  totally  and  incurably 
blind,  and  the  girl  refused  to  marry  him.  Shall 
I  send  him  your  card,  Miss  ? w 

(<  No,  not  for  the  world, B  answered  the  girl 
waving  his  dismissal;  and  this  time  there  was 
a  thrill  of  such  unmistakable  pleasure  in  her 
voice  that  the  man  wondered  at  it,  thinking  to 
himself,  that  "foreigners  were  a  queer  lot  any 
way. w 

The  curtain  arose  for  the  second  act,  and  the 
audience  bent  forward  in  pleased  surprise  at  the 

68 


in  St.  Augustine. 

radiant  creature  who  appeared  before  them,  her 
cheeks  glowing,  her  great  star-like  eyes  shining 
with  happy  excitement  —  and  her  voice  —  (could 
it  be  the  same  to  which  they  had  listened  a 
few  moments  before  ?)  soared  in  a  wonderful 
burst  of  glad  melody,  until  her  listeners  asked 
themselves  if  the  singer  were  not  more  than 
mortal  —  and  wondered,  too,  what  had  wrought 
in  the  capricious  songstress  such  change.  Surely, 
child-like,  although  she  seemed,  she  could  not 
have  been  intimidated,  for  had  she  not  sung 
before  the  crowned  heads  of  Europe  ?  No,  they 
told  themselves,  she  was  simply  as  great  an 
actress  as  singer,  and  wooed  her  hearers  to 
laughter,  or  tears,  at  her  will.  Sweeter,  fuller, 
clearer,  soared  the  beautiful  voice,  replete  with 
joyous  melody.  The  audience  was  breath 
less  with  delight,  and  the  soul  of  the  blind  man, 
for  whom,  all  unknown,  was  poured  out  this 
flood  of  melody,  reveled  in  its  beauty.  The 
beautiful  sightless  eyes  of  the  blind  Adonis 
smiled,  even  as  they  had  done  in  the  long 
ago;  and  to  the  song  queen,  upon  whose 
voice  the  listening  people  hung  entranced,  that 
smile  brought  the  same  rapture  that  it  did  ten 

69 


Romance  of  a  Keniuckian 

years  ago  to  the  little  Spanish  flower  girl, 
whose  sunshine  it  was,  and  from  whose  memory 
it  had  never  been  effaced. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

IT  was  one  of  those  perfect  days  found  only 
in  June;  and  a  June  day  in  central  Kentucky 
is  the  embodiment  of  all  that  is  beautiful  in 
nature,  a  bouquet  of  her  fairest  culling,  a  rhap 
sody-flower  scented  and  roseate-hued,  set  to  the 
melody  of  singing  birds,  and  whispering  zephyr- 
kissed  leaves.  Such  was  the  day  following  the 
evening  of  the  great  prima  donna's  appearance 
in  Lexington,  and  when  that  capricious  little 
bohemian  ordered  her  driver  to  stop  the  car 
riage  a  quarter  of  a  mile  the  other  side  of  Col 
onel  Van  Zant's  residence  and  await  her  return, 
it  created  no  surprise,  such  as  similar  con 
duct  upon  the  part  of  a  well-regulated  young 
lady  would  have  caused. 

The  girl  paused  and  drew  a  long  breath,  as 
though  fain  to  drink  in  some  of  the  beauty  and 
freshness  about  her.  The  sun  was  golden  in 
the  clear  azure  of  the  heavens,  and  through  the 

70 


in  St.  Augustine. 

grand  old  forest  trees,  it  sifted  a  shower  of 
amber  gems,  which  gleamed  upon  the  mossy 
turf  beneath.  Leaves  stirred  lazily  in  the  warm 
perfumed  air,  and  birds  sang  far  and  near,  as 
though  in  compliment  to  the  sweet  singer  who 
listened  to  them,  while  about  her  on  every  side 
spread  fields  and  meadows,  in  all  the  broad  roll 
ing  magnificence  which  marks  the  blue  grass 
region  of  Kentucky.  She  proceeded  slowly 
towards  the  grounds  surrounding  the  Colonel's 
home.  It  was  not  unlike  most  Kentucky  subur 
ban  homes,  spacious,  old-fashioned,  and  almost 
hidden  from  the  roadside  view  by  the  gigantic 
oaks,  which  were  a  prominent  feature  of  the 
fine  old  park  in  which  it  stood.  Having  entered 
the  grounds  she  stopped  suddenly,  for  upon  a 
rustic  bench  beneath  a  canopy  of  trees,  his 
hands  folded,  his  beautiful  sightless  eyes  gazing 
upon  vacancy,  sat  Colonel  Van  Zant.  Trembling 
she  softly  approached  and  stood  silently  looking 
at  him.  Tears  rained  down  her  cheeks  as  she 
gazed  upon  the  strong  man,  helpless  as  a  little 
child.  She  drew  nearer,  and  took  his  hand. 

<(  Mr.  George  —  Colonel  Van  Zant. w  •  He  arose, 
smiling  and  surprised.     (<  You  do  not  know  me, 

71 


Romance  of  a  Kentitckian 

you  did  not  know  you  were  listening  last  night 
to  your  little  ( music  mad  *  Petronilla  Pedro  ?  '* 
A  pleased  expression  of  surprise  mantled  his 
face,  and  he  cordially  clasped  both  of  the  little 
singer's  hands  in  his  own  as  he  seated  her  be 
side  him. 

"Petronilla!  my  child, w  he  said,  (<this  is  a 
pleasure  I  never  anticipated.  Years  ago  I  wrote 
to  St.  Augustine,  but  could  not  trace  your 
whereabouts. w 

"Then  you  had  not  forgotten  me,"  exclaimed 
the  girl  eagerly. 

(<  Forgotten  you !  no  indeed, w  he  replied,  C(  but 
how  should  I  know  that  the  great  prima  donna 
who  had  turned  half  the  heads  in  Europe  was 
my  baby  sweetheart  of  St.  Augustine;  and  now, 
my  child,  tell  me  all  about  yourself,  what  you 
are  doing,  and  where  you  are  going.  w 

How  lightly  he  speaks,  thought  the  girl,  and 
never  refers  to  his  own  great  misfortune.  (<  I 
came  to  this  country,  not  for  laurels,  or  money, 
but  —  but  because  —  I  wanted  to  find  you,  Mr. 
George, w  she  answered  simply. 

"Ah!*  he  replied,  (<  my  little  Petronilla  im 
agines  herself  indebted  to  me,  because  I  first 

72 


in  St.  Augustine. 

placed  her  upon  the  road  to  success,  and  how 
wonderfully  she  has  compensated  me,  leaving 
me  the  debtor  after  the  rare  feast  of  last  night. w 
Great  tears  welled  up  in  the  velvety  brown 
eyes,  and  throwing  her  arms  about  his  neck,  in 
utter  childlike  abandonment,  she  sobbed:  — 

<(O   Mr.   George  —  will   you   never   understand 
-I  came  because  —  because  —  I  love  you  —  and 
because  I  want  never  to  leave  you." 

(<  Dear  little  Petronilla, w  he  answered,  <(  I  could 
never  accept  such  a  sacrifice."  Could  the  blind 
man  have  seen  the  worshipful  passion  which 
radiated  the  glowing  face  and  beamed  from  the 
starlike  eyes  of  this  child  of  nature,  he  would 
not  have  felt  her  love  to  be  a  sacrifice;  but 
alas  —  he  only  felt  the  deep  affliction,  the  mighty 
gulf  which  he  could  not  expect  woman's  love 
to  ever  bridge.  Suddenly  the  little  hands  un 
clasped  themselves  from  about  his  neck,  and, 
with  a  certain  touch  of  dignity,  the  girl  ex 
claimed  :  — 

<(  I  deserve  rebuke,  in  that  I  have  disregarded 
the  restriction  society  places  upon  my  sex.  I 
have  betrayed  to  you  my  love,  forgetting  that 
yours  was  given  to  another  long  years  ago." 

73 


Romame  of  a  Kentuchian 

<(  Petronilla !  w  —  the  hands  of  the  blind  man 
groped  aimlessly  until  they  touched  the  little, 
trembling  arm  of  the  sobbing  girl,  and  drawing 
her  within  his  embrace,  he  exclaimed,  <(  Petro 
nilla,  for  God's  sake,  my  darling,  do  not  misun 
derstand  me.  When  this  terrible  affliction  came 
upon  me,  and  I  found  the  woman  who  had 
promised  to  become  my  wife  had  deserted  me, 
I  longed  for  you,  child  though  you  were,  as 
only  a  man  can  long  for  the  one  thing  in  life 
left  for  him  to  love,  and  as  I  compared  your 
ardent  love  for  me  with  that  of  the  woman 
whom  your  childish  prophecy  declared  should 
never  become  my  wife,  it  \vas  as  a  ray  of  sun 
shine  beside  a  miserable,  flickering  taper.  I 
searched  for  you,  but  in  vain;  and  now  —  now 
that  you  are  here,  in  the  radiance  of  your 
young  beauty,  and  the  glory  of  your  magnifi 
cent  matchless  voice,  here,  with  the  world  in 
adoration  at  your  feet,  can  you  not  feel  with 
me,  my  darling,  the  presumption  it  would  be 
for  a  helpless,  blind  man  to  accept  the  priceless 
treasure  of  your  love  ?  w 

Very  slowly  she  spoke  to  him  now,  and  with 
her  arms  close  about  his  neck  once  more,  and 

74 


in  St.  Augustine. 

the  glory  of  her  splendid  love  illuminating  her 
countenance.  (<  I  only  know, J>  she  said,  (( that 
ever  since  I  looked  upon  your  face,  ten  years 
ago,  I  have  loved  you,  nay,  worshipped  you 
madly.  I  only  know  that  I  can  never  love 
another,  having  loved  you;  and  that  to-day  I 
would  gladly  exchange  the  position  I  occupy 
for  that  of  the  homeless  flower  girl,  if  thereby 
I  might  be  permitted  to  become  your  servant. w 

Very  softly  and  reverently  the  blind  Adonis 
made  reply,  as  he  held  the  happy  girl  in  his 
arms :  — 

<(  Petronilla,  my  precious  wife,  in  depriving 
me  of  my  sight,  God  has  given  me  a  far  more 
priceless  jewel. w 

Let  us  draw  the  leafy  canopy,  beneath  which 
the  happy  lovers  rested,  close  about  them,  and 
intrude  no  farther  upon  the  sacredness  which 
belongs  to  perfect  love. 

The  speedy  marriage  of  Colonel  Van  Zant  to 
the  great  prima  donna  gave  rise  to  much  com 
ment  and  many  theories.  Some  said  the 
Colonel  had  educated  her,  that  he  might  sel 
fishly  appropriate  her  to  himself,  when  her 
success  was  at  its  zenith;  while  others  declared 

75 


Romance  of  a  Kentiickian  in  St.  Augustine. 

her  a  designing  creature,  who  married  Colonel 
Van  Zant  for  a  name.  Suffice  it  to  say,  that  in 
all  Kentucky  there  is  not  a  happier  couple  than 
George  Van  Zant  and  his  beautiful  wife,  who 
proudly  bears  upon  her  jeweled  hand  a  certain 
little  turquoise  ring  with  which  she  says  the 
Colonel  presented  her  when  a  baby,  as  her  en 
gagement  ring. 

[Reprinted    through    the    courtesy    of    Frank    Leslie's    «  Popular 
Monthly  Magazine."] 


76 


LITTLE  JEAN'S   THEFT 


looked  so  out  of  place  among  those  de 
bauched  criminals,  as  he  stood  —  a  forlorn 
tiny  midget  in  the  New  York  Police  Court. 
One  by  one  the  motley  crew  pressed  forward 
and  received  their  sentence.  Women,  whose 
painted,  shameless  faces  bore  not  a  trace  of 
purity  or  womanhood;  and  men,  from  whose 
visage  one  turned  and  shuddered,  wondering  if 
they  ever  bore  the  stamp  of  childhood's  inno 
cence. 

The  Judge  turned  to  the  lad.  How  pinched 
and  small  he  was.  A  mop  of  tangled,  yellow 
curls  formed  a  sort  of  halo  about  the  little 
white  face,  and  dark  rings  encircled  the  clear 
blue  eyes.  With  the  great  toe  of  his  little  bare 
foot  he  formed  circles  on  the  dusty  floor,  as  is 
the  wont  of  children  when  in  shame. 

77 


Little  Jean's  Theft. 

(<  Look  up,  my  boy!w  the  Judge  exclaimed. 
(<  Yours  is  a  curious  theft,  this  stealing  flowers, 
and  I  am  told  this  is  your  third  offense.  Now 
had  you  stolen  that  to  eat,  t'would  not  have 
seemed  so  strange,  but  flowers,  always  flowers. 
Now  tell  me,  lad,  what  it  is  tempts  you  thus  to 
steal  these  flowers,  and  from  a  stall  where  fruit 
and  candy  lay  within  your  reach. w 

The  boy  looked  up.  Great  tear-drops  trickled 
down  his  worn  white  cheeks,  which  bore  traces 
of  the  grimy  little  hands  that  brushed  them  off. 

(<  Please,  sir,w  he  made  reply,  "before  I  came 
to  live  in  this  great  town,  where  all  the  streets 
are  brick,  I  lived  alone  with  mother  and  our 
flowers.  But  she  was  sick,  and  all  the  time 
she  coughed,  and  white  and  thinner  grew,  and 
one  day,  sir, —  the  last  before  she  died,  —  she 
took  some  flowers,  and  giving  them  to  me,  said  : 
( Little  Jean,  whenever  you  see  flowers,  think 
of  me;'  and,  sir — I  live  up  many  flights  of 
steps,  quite  near  the  sky  —  and  when  I  have  a 
flower,  I'm  up  so  high,  I'm  sure  she  sees,  and 
smiles  to  know  I  think  of  her;  and  when  I 
hold  the  flower  and  go  to  sleep,  my  mother 
always  comes  and  kisses  me. M 

78 


Little  Jean's  Theft. 

The  Judge's  cheeks  were  wet  with  tears. 

"God  bless  you,  boy,"  he  said,  <(as  sweet  a 
flower  as  you,  my  child,  shall  not  fade  for  want 
of  tender  care." 

The  child  had  found  a  protector;  yet  still,  as 
the  cherished  pet  of  a  happy  home,  his  sweetest 
joy  is  to  gather  flowers,  and  show  the  angel 
mother  that  (<  Little  Jean  w  still  thinks  of  her. 


79 


NUMBER  FOURTEEN 


^fpN    A    Mott    Street    tenement    house    in    New 

mP 

<jik  York,  where  the  air  is  heavy  with  that  com 
bined  polution  peculiar  only  to  the  over-crowded 
hovels  of  poverty,  there  recently  occurred  a 
scene  witnessed  alone  by  the  Omnipotent. 
Stretched  upon  a  miserable  cot,  an  emaciated 
lad  of  twelve  years  lay  dying.  Beside  him 
knelt  a  weeping  woman,  who  clasped  the 
small  cold  hands  with  an  anguish  known  only 
to  mothers.  The  two  were  alone,  when  there 
suddenly  appeared  upon  the  scene  a  man, —  one 
whose  hair  was  prematurely  white,  and  whose 
gaunt,  trembling  form  was  bowed,  but  not  with 
age.  Ten  years  had  elapsed  since  the  man  be 
held  his  family,  and  this  was  his  first  home 
coming.  He  stood,  riveted,  as  it  were,  to  the 
6  81 


Number  Fourteen. 

spot,  unable  either  to  speak  or  move.  His 
mind  wandered  feebly  back  to  the  halcyon  days 
of  childhood.  The  merry  laughter  of  the  now 
grief-stricken  woman  before  him  seemed  to  re 
echo  over  the  awful  lapse  of  years,  carrying 
with  it  something  of  the  smell  of  wild  flowers, 
the  tangle  of  bushes  and  woodland  paths,  as 
hand  in  hand  they  trudged  to  and  from  the 
country  school.  Like  the  varied  scenes  of  a 
panorama,  the  man's  dreams  continued  to 
spread  themselves  in  vivid  coloring  upon  the 
faded  canvas  of  his  memory.  Now  he  was  an 
errand  boy,  in  the  great  Metropolis  which  had 
borne  witness  to  the  tragedy  of  his  life. 
Through  long  years  each  faithfully  performed 
duty,  tinged  with  the  rainbow  hue  of  hope, 
seemed  bringing  him  nearer  the  goal  he  sought; 
and  the  boy,  entering  young  manhood,  graced 
the  fair  castle  of  his  dreams  with  her  whom 
from  earliest  childhood  he  called  his  (<  wee 
wifie."  Still,  the  gaunt,  gray -haired  man  stood 
lost  in  retrospection.  Now  the  bright  errand 
boy  had  become  the  trusted  private  secretary 
of  Lloyd  Hutchings,  his  wealthy  employer. 
Through  this  maze  of  bygone  years  in  which 

82 


Number  Fourteen. 

the  man  was  lost,  the  grief-stricken  woman 
before  him  was  ever  the  central  figure.  But  her 
voice  had  the  joyousness  of  the  birds  to  which 
they  listened  in  childhood.  Again,  she  was  his 
bride,  and  he  lived  over  the  four  brief  years  of 
their  wedded  bliss;  the  happiest  years  either 
had  ever  known,  for  both  had  been  orphaned 
at  an  early  age,  and  knew  no  love,  save  that 
of  each  other.  There  is  a  blissful  economy  in 
nature,  whereby  a  man  isolated  from  his  fel 
lows  lives  almost  entirely  in  the  past;  blissful, 
albeit  the  past  is  dark,  for  it  is  the  only  pres 
ervation  from  inevitable  madness.  So  this 
gray-haired  man,  who  had  lived  apart  from 
his  fellows  for  ten  years,  stood  groping  with 
the  past,  while  the  real  tragedy  of  life  was 
transpiring  before  him.  Again  he  was  seated 
at  his  employer's  desk;  he  could  see  the 
blot  upon  his  book,  caused  by  the  sudden 
placing  of  a  man's  hand  upon  his  arm. 
A  soft,  treacherous  hand;  better  far  had  it 
stabbed  him  to  the  heart,  than  have  lingered 
upon  his  arm  so  caressingly.  Again  he  hears 
the  voice  of  his  employer's  son,  as  placing  a 
forged  check  in  his  hands  (bearing  his  father's 

83 


Number  Fourteen. 

signature),  he  bids  him  cash  it,  as  the  hour 
is  late,  and  other  immediate  duties  call  for  his 
attention. 

Credulous  victim,  how  promptly  he  obeyed. 
Again  he  lived  over  the  week  intervening  be 
tween  the  discovery  of  the  forgery;  and  now 
he  was  confronting  young  Hutchings,  only  to 
find  an  emphatic  denial  of  his  participation  in 
the  affair.  Again  —  with  a  dignity  borne  of  in 
nocence,  he  plead  with  his  employer  to  believe 
him;  but  in  vain.  His  brain  swam,  as  he 
seemed  to  see  a  crowded  court-room,  and  lis 
tened  to  the  evidence  which  was  but  too  true, 
that  he,  Harold  Hastings,  had  forged  the  check. 
Then  came  the  verdict  with  its  ten  years'  im 
prisonment.  Life  had  stopped  for  him,  with 
the  utterance  of  those  few  words.  The  business 
world  shook  its  head  en  viassc,  and  showered 
unbounded  sympathy  upon  the  martyr  head  of 
the  opulent  employer;  but  what  heed  gave  it 
to  him,  whose  individuality  had  suddenly  been 
merged  into  that  of  the  machine  which  justice 
recognizes  only  by  a  number,  and  who  was  soon 
to  be  forgotten  by  all  save  the  w  wee  wifie, w 
who  tearfully  hugged  her  baby  to  her  frail 

§4 


Number  Fourteen. 

bosom,  and  bravely  took  up  the  burden  of  life 
alone.  Only  once,  during  all  those  years,  were 
one  of  her  letters  given  him,  and  he  knew  from 
its  tenor  that  she  had  written  often.  It  was  a 
brave,  strong  letter, —  one  calculated  to  inspire 
hope, — with  never  a  word  of  hardships  borne,  or 
labor  performed  by  the  frail  little  hands.  Only 
a  great  outpouring  of  love,  and  a  looking  for 
ward  to  his  return  when  they  should  begin  life 
over  again ;  with  here  and  there  a  description 
of  little  Harold  growing  ever  more  like  her 
absent  dear  one.  What  pen  can  portray  the 
awful  change  wrought  in  man  by  solitary  con 
finement!  So  accustomed  had  this  wretched 
man  become  to  the  once  hated  appellation  of 
(<  Number  Fourteen, w  that  when  upon  his  dis 
missal  the  warden  repeated  his  name,  its  unac 
customed  sound  startled  him.  It  was  some  days 
after  his  dismissal  until  he  was  enabled  to  find 
the  miserable  abode  which  gave  shelter  to  his 
family;  and  now  he  stood  in  their  presence, 
trembling,  awed,  unable  either  to  speak  or 
move,  gazing  upon  this  last  sad  scene  in  the 
drama  of  his  life,  as  like  a  panorama  its  past 
had  flitted  swiftly  before  him.  He  passed  his 

85 


Number  Fourteen. 

hands  across  his  eyes,  as  one  in  a  dream.  Could 
this  emaciated,  sad-faced  woman,  who  hung  in 
such  anguish  over  the  dying  boy,  be  his  beauti 
ful  girlish  <(  wee  wine  w  of  ten  years  ago  ?  He 
made  an  effort  to  move  towards  her.  A  long, 
quivering  sigh  escaped  the  lips  of  the  boy,  and 
without  a  struggle,  he  closed  his  blue  eyes, 
never  to  open  them  again.  (<  So  He  giveth  His 
beloved  sleep, J>  whispered  the  mother.  (<  Good 
bye,  little  Harold;  you  have  left  mother  to  wait 
alone. w 

The  trembling  gray-haired  man  was  beside 
them  now,  and  his  voice  was  broken  by  sobs, 
as  he  exclaimed :  <(  No  —  wee  wifie  —  the  watch 
ing  is  over  now. w  It  was  indeed,  for  the  faith 
ful  spirit  of  the  ex-convict's  <(  wee  wifie w  had 
followed  that  of  their  child,  and  it  was  the 
marble  face  of  the  dead  upon  which  he  rained 
his  impassioned  kisses.  All  night  long  he 
watched  beside  his  dead,  clasping  them  in  his 
arms,  kissing  their  mute  lips,  and  whispering  in 
their  silent  ears  something  of  the  boundless 
love  with  which  his  poor  broken  heart  was 
overflowing;  but  when  the  morning  light  strug 
gled  in  through  the  narrow  casement,  he  drew 


Number  Fourteen. 

down  the  ragged  blind,  and  crept  softly  out 
into  the  broad  sunlight  and  away  from  the 
putrid  air  of  the  crowded  alley,  where  lay  all 
that  was  dear  to  him  on  earth.  It  was  Sabbath 
morning,  and  groups  of  gayly-dressed  people 
were  seeking  their  various  places  of  worship. 
On  through  the  crowded  thoroughfare,  the  soli 
tary  ex-convict  wended  his  way,  pausing  only 
at  the  door  of  one  of  the  prominent  churches. 
How  often,  with  his  wee  wine,  he  had  entered 
those  sacred  portals  —  the  last  time  carrying 
baby  Harold  thither  to  be  christened.  <(  Ah, 
God ! w  he  moaned,  and  stifled  back  the  sobs 
which  refused  to  be  controled.  Too  broken 
hearted  was  he  to  note  the  cold  stares  the 
fashionable  congregation  bestowed  upon  him, 
as  he  crept  up  the  aisle,  to  the  pew  he  had 
occupied  ten  years  before.  He  did  not  even 
realize  that  an  usher  had  hastily  led  him  back; 
giving  to  the  forward,  uncouth  stranger  a  seat 
nearest  the  door.  ((  Bear  ye  one  another's  bur 
dens. })  These  were  the  words  of  the  text. 
Beautiful  words  they  were,  but  words  which 
the  great  busy  world,  and  most  of  all,  a 
fashionable  congregation,  have  little  time  to 

8? 


Number  Fourteen. 

consider.  The  stranger,  in  the  coarse  ill-fitting 
garb,  who  wept  softly  during  the  eloquent  ser 
mon  of  the  popular  divine,  seemed  strangely  out 
of  place. 

*  Blessed  be  the  tie  that  binds 
Our  hearts  in  Christian  love." 

How  sweetly  the  words  floated  upon  the  air, 
borne  in  waves  of  song  by  the  cultivated  voices 
of  Dr.  E's.  aristocratic  congregation. 

"  We  share  our  mutual  woes, 
Our  mutual  burdens  bear, 
And  often  for  each  other  flows 
The  sympathizing  tear." 

As  the  beautiful  soulful  words  welled  forth 
from  the  lips  of  the  great  congregation,  they 
carried  a  ray  of  comfort  to  the  poor  bleeding 
heart  of  the  ex-convict,  and  inspired  him  with 
fresh  courage  to  solicit  the  favor  which  had 
prompted  his  coming.  The  moment  was  at 
hand.  The  benediction  had  been  pronounced, 
and  as  the  congregation  thronged  the  aisle  the 
ex-convict  shrinkingly  pressed  forward  to  the  elo 
quent  divine  whose  gracious  words  had  strangely 
soothed  his  aching  heart.  Hastily  and  very  pa 
thetically  he  related  his  sad  story,  and  concluded 


Number  Fourteen. 

by  exclaiming:  <(  I  ask  you,  dear  sir,  for  the  sake 
of  her  who  was  once  a  member  of  your  church, 
and  for  the  sake  of  the  dead  boy,  upon  whose 
baby  head  you  lay  your  hands  in  the  sacred 
rite  of  baptism;  for  their  dear  sakcs,  I  implore 
you,  give  them  a  Christian  burial,  and  save 
them  from  a  pauper's  grave. }>  The  soft  voice 
of  the  eloquent  divine  was  full  of  patronization 
as  he  replied:  (<  Really,  my  poor  man,  this  is 
very  sad;  but  my  time  is  too  thoroughly  en 
grossed  with  my  immediate  congregation  to  bur 
den  myself  with  outride  affairs.  We  are  taught 
in  God's  Word  that  the  way  of  the  transgressor 
is  hard,  and  I  trust  past  transgressions  may  save 
you  from  future  sin.^  Fiercely  the  ex-convict 

turned    from    the    Rev.    Dr.   ,    and    into    his 

face  there  crept  a  look  which  it  is  well  comes 
not  often  to  the  face  of  man.  An  hour  later, 
as  the  eloquent  divine  was  seated  at  his  bounte 
ous  board  discussing  with  his  cultured  family  a 
sermon  he  had  in  view,  which  he  trusted  would 
be  fruitful  in  securing  large  donations  toward 
certain  foreign  missions  in  which  he  was  inter 
ested,  another  scene  \vas  being  enacted  in  a  re 
mote  part  of  the  city.  A  motley  crew,  such  as 

89 


Number  Fourteen. 

the  crowded  tenement  house  of  a  great  city 
alone  can  reveal,  were  thronging  garret  and 
stairway,  called  thither  by  the  sharp  report  of 
a  pistol.  Upon  a  cot,  side  by  side,  lay  a  mother 
and  child,  their  dead  faces  wearing  a  strange 
look  of  serenity.  Upon  the  floor  beside  them, 
face  downward,  lay  a  man  with  a  pistol  shot 
through  his  brain.  A  stahvart  Irishman  pushed 
through  the  crowd,  and  lifting  the  body  from 
the  floor,  placed  it  upon  the  cot  beside  the 
others.  Suddenly  he  started  back,  and  roughly 
brushing  the  tears  from  his  eyes,  exclaimed :  — 
"My  God!"  //  is  number  fourteen.^ 


CATHERINE 

A   Tale  from  Real  Life. 

«  «  « 
CHAPTER   I. 

SURELY   whoever   speaks   to   me   in   the   right   voice,  him   or   her   I 

shall  follow, 
As   the  water  follows  the  moon,  silently  with  fluid  steps,  anywhere 

around  the  globe.  — Walt   Whitman. 

§OFTLY,  through  a  canopy  of  glossy  leaves  and 
creamy  magnolia  blossoms,  crept  the  fair 
June  sunshine,  flecking  with  gold  the  rough 
brown  locks  of  a  girl,  who  with  bowed  head, 
softly  wept.  Catherine  Scharger  was  the  daugh 
ter  of  the  most  miserly,  domineering  man  in 
the  State  of  Alabama, —  a  German,  who,  settling 
in  the  pretty,  picturesque  town  of  Selma,  had 
married  one  of  its  daughters  because  of  her 
thrift  and  industry.  But  the  soft-voiced  South 
ern  girl,  although  inured  to  the  hardships  of 
poverty,  had  blossomed  in  that  atmosphere  of 
kindly  sympathy  which  to  the  Southerner  is  the 

91 


Catherine. 

heritage  alike  of  rich  and  poor;  and  after  one 
brief  year  of  cruelty  and  unkindness,  the  poor 
toil-worn  hands  were  folded  forever  from  their 
labor,  and  the  weary  eyes  closed,  never  to  open 
again.  Hence,  Catherine  had  never  known  a 
mother's  love.  Before  six  months  her  father 
married  again;  married  a  girl  as  phlegmatic 
and  unsympathetic  as  himself,  and  Catherine 
(Heaven  pity  her!)  had  grown  to  womanhood 
with  never  the  remembrance  of  a  kiss,  a  caress, 
or  a  kindly  word.  With  her  father's  stalwart 
form  and  blue  eyes,  she  had  inherited  her 
mother's  tender  heart;  and  this  fair  June  morn 
ing,  when  all  nature  seemed  to  unite  in  one 
grand  symphony  of  praise,  the  poor  heartsick 
girl  had  crept  to  this  secluded  spot  that  she 
might  weep  unobserved. 

<(  Hello,  Catherine!  is  you  a-cryin'?" 
The  speaker,  Tom  Headly,  was  a  short, 
thick-set  fellow,  with  a  coarse  face,  sensual 
mouth,  and  a  cast  in  one  eye.  Although  he 
had  resided  in  Selma  for  six  months,  no  one 
knew  from  whence  he  came. 

Catherine,  vexed  to  find  her  solitude  broken, 
ventured  no  reply. 

92 


Catherine. 

(<  I  is  got  somep'n  to  tell  ye,  Catherine,  ye 
hear  ?  w  he  continued. 

Catherine  lifted  her  tear-stained  face  and 
looked  at  him  sullenly. 

(<  I  is  going  way  to-night,  an'  I'd  like  to  take 
you  with  me.  I  is  goin'  so  far  nobody'll  ever 
hear  tell  of  we  all.  Is  you  willin'  to  go,  Cath 
erine  ? }) 

Still  the  girl  gazed  at  him  sullenly,  without 
reply. 

<(  We  all  'u'd  live  together,  Catherine,  an'  you 
could  keep  house.  I'd  be  powerful  good  to  you, 
girl,  an'  you  might  have  everything  your  own 
way.  Is  you  willin'  to  go'  long  ? }) 

He  laid  his  heavy  hand  caressingly  upon  the 
rough  brown  head.  Ah !  never  was  there  ma 
gician's  wand  that  could  vie  with  the  touch  of 
human  sympathy;  and  in  all  the  twenty-four 
years  of  her  life,  this  was  the  girl's  first  caress. 

She  lifted  her  coarse,  labor-stained  hand,  and 
placing  it  within  Tom's,  replied:  — 

<(  Reckon  I  is  willin'  to  go  with  you,  Tom." 

Tom  leaned  forward,  and  kissed  her  upon  the 
lips.  It  was  her  first  kiss,  and  it  was  the  open 
ing  of  a  new  life. 

93 


Catherine. 

Ah!  the  rapture  of  love,  to  this  tender,  pas 
sionate,  starved  heart.  The  honest  blue  eyes, 
still  moist  with  tears,  shone  like  violets  gemmed 
with  dew,  and  rich  waves  of  color  came  and 
went  across  the  sun-browned  face.  How  fair 
life  seemed  now !  How  gratefully  came  the  faint 
sweet  odor  of  the  jasmine,  mingled  with  the 
fresher  smell  of  tree  and  shrub.  A  mocking 
bird  soaring  aloft  sent  its  rich  flood  of  melody 
athwart  the  clear  azure  of  the  Southern  sky. 
Tiny  shafts  of  sunshine  pierced  the  fragrant 
canopy  above  her  head,  and  sent  a  shower  of 
shadows  gleaming  at  her  feet.  Catherine  felt 
all  this  just  as  the  crowd  is  thrilled  by  the 
beauty  of  a  great  painting,  without  comprehen 
sion  of  its  artistic  conception. 

Suddenly  a  hateful,  familiar  sound  cleft  the 
clear  summer  air :  — 

«  Cot— o— ree— na !  » 

It  was  the  voice  of  her  stepmother,  and  with 
the  agility  of  a  startled  fawn  the  girl  bounded 
to  her  feet  and  was  gone. 


94 


Catherine. 


CHAPTER   II. 

ONE  day  still  fierce,  'mid  many  a  day 

struck  calm.  — Browning. 

IN  a  village  in  southern  Ohio  stands  a  log 
cabin,  just  as  it  stood  over  fifty  years  ago,  when 
built  by  Tom  Headly;  and  to  the  able-bodied, 
loving-hearted  Catherine,  whom  he  installed  as 
its  mistress,  what  a  paradise  it  seemed.  How 
light  hearted  the  once  melancholy  and  morose 
girl  became;  for  who  under  the  sweet  influence 
of  love  could  be  otherwise,  be  it  my  lady  in 
her  palace,  or  her  servant  in  the  kitchen  ?  It 
was  one  stormy  night  in  the  month  of  Novem 
ber  following  her  elopement  that  the  poor  girl's 
happiness  (too  brief  to  have  dispelled  any  of 
its  illusions)  was  brought  suddenly  to  a  close. 
Were  this  tale  an  imaginary  one,  the  happiness 
of  its  heroine  should  have  been  prolonged;  but 
alas!  it  is  only  a  chapter  from  the  book  of  life, 
and  where  in  fiction  can  be  found  sorrows  so 
deep,  tragedies  so  thrilling,  or  love  so  true  and 
tender,  as  in  real  life  ?  In  a  low  chair  Tom's 
hands  had  fashioned  for  her  particular  use, 

95 


Catherine. 

Catherine  sat  in  the  ruddy  glow  of  an  open 
firelight,  dreaming,  just  as  myriads  of  women 
have,  and  will  ever  continue  to  do.  Dreaming 
of  the  God-given  mystery  reserved  for  woman 
alone  to  solve,  the  beautiful,  sacred  mystery  of 
motherhood  which  crowns  the  lowliest  of  her 
sex  a  queen,  as  royally  as  did  the  immaculate 
conception  of  the  Mother  of  God,  crown  her 
queen  among  women.  Dream,  did  our  poor 
Catherine,  while  her  busy  fingers  deftly  shaped 
wonderful  little  garments;  dream,  and  smile,  in 
her  homely,  humble  way,  glancing  now  and 
then  proudly  at  Tom,  whose  shock  of  red  hair 
was  bent  over  his  work,  for  Tom  was  a  good 
carpenter,  and  this  new  neighborhood  was  not 
slow  in  recognizing  his  handiwork.  Suddenly 
the  cabin  door  swung  noiselessly  open  and  a 
tall  man,  wearing  a  long  white  beard,  softly  en 
tered,  and  approaching  the  busy  carpenter,  gazed 
down  upon  him  without  speaking.  Tom  glanced 
up  with  a  gesture  of  displeasure,  gruffly  ex 
claiming  :  — 

"Wai!  what  does  you  want,  Stranger  ? w 
(c  What  do  I  want  ?  M  returned  the  man.     There 
was  something  in  the  voice  which  caused  Tom 

96 


Catherine. 

to  start  violently  to  his  feet  and  turn  deadly 
pale. 

(<  So  you  know  me,  do  you  ? M  laughed  the 
man;  and  dashing  aside  the  disguising  beard, 
with  a  quick  movement  he  covered  Headly  with 
a  pistol,  at  the  same  time  exclaiming:  — 

<(  I'll  tell  you  what  I  want,  Tom  Headly.  I 
want  to  avenge  my  brother's  murder;  I  want 
your  life.*' 

Before  the  wretched  man  had  time  to  plead 
for  mercy,  he  fell  at  the  feet  of  his  avenger,  a 
bleeding  corpse. 

Six  months  later  Tom  Headly's  son  was  born. 
The  shock  the  mother  received  had  left  its  im 
press  upon  the  plastic  brain  of  the  child;  the 
boy  was  simple-minded. 


97 


Catherine. 


CHAPTER   III. 

A  solemn  thing  it  is  to  me, 

To  look  upon  a  babe  that  sleeps  — 

Wearing  in  its  spirit  deep 
The  undeveloped  mystery 

Of  its  Adam's  taint  and  woe, 

Which  when  they  developed  be, 

Will  not-  let  it  slumber  so. 

— -Mrs.  Browning. 

PREVIOUS  to  the  birth  of  her  child,  Catherine 
remained  in  a  sort  of  dumb  stupor,  and  it  was 
not  until  her  baby  was  placed  within  her  arms, 
that  she  became  aroused  to  consciousness;  and 
then  it  was  that  the  poor,  starved  heart  poured 
out  its  idolatrous  flood  of  mother  love,  upon 
"Tom's  baby,*  as  she  was  wont  to  call  it. 
Nature  is  a  kind  parent,  and  Catherine,  in  fail 
ing  to  ever  perfectly  recover  her  perceptive 
faculties,  was  thus  spared  the  pain  of  realizing 
that  her  child's  mind  was  blighted.  To  her, 
(( Tom's  baby  w  was  all  that  is  bright  and  beau 
tiful,  and  in  it  she  (( lived,  and  moved,  and 
had  her  being. w  Its  tiny  arms  about  her  neck, 
the  touch  of  its  rosy  fingers  upon  her  face,  and 
the  cooing  of  its  baby  voice,  were  manna  to 


Catherine. 

her  weary  soul.  The  poor  creature  was  deft  at 
needle  work,  and  tirelessly  and  unceasingly  she 
labored  to  support  "Tom's  baby,w  and  when 
this  self-same  baby  grew  to  a  strong-limbed 
lad  who  developed  a  taste  for  tools,  and  bent 
over  his  work  with  his  father's  self-same  shock 
of  red  curling  hair,  Catherine's  delight  knew 
no  bounds.  For  years  her  simple  homely  hap 
piness  was  without  alloy,  but  alas  — <(  the  trail 
of  the  serpent  is  over  all,"  and  the  poor  life  so 
replete  with  suffering  was  never  more  to  know 
surcease  from  its  sorrow.  Young  Tom  Headly 
began  frequenting  the  village  alehouses,  and 
ere  long,  every  farthing  of  his  earnings  were 
deposited  therein.  It  is  useless  to  follow  poor 
Catherine  through  long  years  of  watching  and 
waiting  for  the  coming  of  unsteady  footsteps, 
the  sound  of  which  had  once  been  such  music 
to  her  ears.  Suffice  it  to  say,  that  her  love 
never  faltered,  and  when  old  age  whitened  her 
head  and  stiffened  her  limbs,  she  still  labored 
to  support  the  son,  whose  pleasure  it  should 
have  been  to  smooth  the  roughened  pathway 
of  her  declining  years.  Eight  miles  from 
the  village  where  Catherine  resided  with  her 

99 


Catherine. 

inebriate  son,  stood  a  number  of  farms,  and 
adjoining  one  of  these  a  cabin  occupied  by  a 
family  named  Taylor,  who  were  distantly  re 
lated  to  Tom's  father.  To  this  family,  «  Silly 
Tom w  (as  he  was  commonly  called)  paid  his 
respects  several  times  a  year,  always  proceeding 
from  thence  to  Lawrence,  there  to  haunt  its 
more  pretentious  saloons.  It  was  in  one  of 
these  that  Tom  was  arrested  upon  suspicion  of 
having  cruelly  murdered  the  entire  Taylor  fam 
ily,  with  the  exception  of  a  babe,  the  pitiful 
•  cries'  of  which,  as  it  wandered  about  in  a  nude 
condition,  attracted  the  attention  of  a  distant 
laborer,  who  carrying  it  into  the  cabin  was 
greeted  by  the  ghastly  spectacle  of  the  mur 
dered  family.  Suspicion  immediately  attached 
itself  to  Headly,  whom  the  neighbors  said  in 
variably  proceeded  to  Lawrence  after  a  visit  to 
the  Taylors.  Upon  the  day  subsequent  to  the 
arrest,  spots  of  blood  were  found  upon  his  shirt 
and  wristbands.  He  accounted  for  them  by 
stating  that  he  had  butchered  hogs  the  day 
previous,  and  to  the  end  stoutly  declared  his 
innocence,  insisting  that  he  had  not  visited  the 
Taylors  for  months.  Intense  excitement  pre- 


Catherine. 

vailed,  and  the  cry  for  Headly's  blood  was  such 
that  a  riot  was  feared.  The  day  following  the 
arrest  there  might  have  been  seen  an  aged 
woman  creeping  along  the  dusty  highway,  upon 
her  white  head  the  July  sun  blazed  merci 
lessly.  During  her  long  eight  miles'  journey  to 
Lawrence  she  stopped  each  passerby  and  gazing 
wildly  and  beseechingly  into  the  faces  of  all 
she  met,  exclaimed :  (( My  Tom  never  did  that 
awful  deed. w  Her  coarse  shoes  were  white  with 
dust,  her  brown  and  wrinkled  face  beaded  with 
perspiration,  when  she  reached  Lawrence  and 
wended  her  way  to  the  home  of  Judge  B — , 
one  of  the  most  prominent  attorneys.  She  car 
ried  a  bucket  of  berries,  which  she  tendered 
the  lawyer  with  the  simplicity  of  a  child,  ex 
claiming:  — 

<(  I  gathered  them  for  you;  I  am  Tom's  mother. 
He  never  did  that  awful  deed,  he  was  too  ten 
der  hearted  to  ever  kill  a  bird.  I  have  no 
money,  but,  oh  God!  I  must  save  Tom.  You 
will  save  my  poor  boy  for  me,  won't  you  ? w 

There  was  something  touching  beyond  ex 
pression  in  the  dumb,  tearless  agony  of  the 
wretched,  half-crazed  old  woman  who  plead  for 


Catherine. 

her  son  —  that  son,  who  to  her  was  still  (<  Tom's 
baby,"  the  same  wee  darling  she  had  nestled 
to  her  bosom  and  tended  so  lovingly.  Her  ap 
peal  was  effective;  Judge  B —  being  a  man  of 
deep  feeling  and  tender  heart,  responded  to  the 
request  by  a  promise  of  assistance.  Several 
times  a  week  during  the  interval  previous  to 
the  trial,  the  aged  woman  plodded  wearily  to 
Lawrence  and  presenting  herself  to  Judge  B — 
besieged  him  with  childish  and  tiresome  queries, 
never  forgetting  her  thank-offering  in  fruit  or 
vegetables.  The  tall  gaunt  figure  of  the  old 
woman,  who  wildly  asserted  to  every  passerby 
that  M  Tom  never  did  that  awful  deed, M  became 
to  the  citizens  of  Lawrence  a  familiar  spectacle. 
The  multitude  laughed  at  her  as  crazy,  while  a 
few,  realizing  that  the  burden  of  her  cry  was 
but  a  wail  which  found  its  echo  in  the  hope 
lessness  of  her  own  broken  heart,  pitied  her. 


Catherine. 

Be  slow  to  judge,  for  mercy  given  then 
Will  merit  you  the  same  from  other  men. 

— L.  M.  Norwood. 

CHAPTER  IV. 

IT  was  a  sultry  August  morning;  and,  as  if 
to  add  to  its  discomfort,  a  slight  drizzly  rain 
was  falling,  which  intensified  the  heat.  This 
was  the  closing  day  of  the  great  murder  trial, 
which  for  the  past  week  had  kept  Lawrence 
and  indeed  half  the  country  in  an  uproar  of 
excitement. 

Shortly  after  sunrise,  a  motley  crowd  began 
assembling  about  the  courthouse,  gathering  in 
force  as  the  hour  set  for  the  trial  approached. 
Moving  slowly  toward  them,  her  coarse  shoes 
heavy  with  mud,  her  faded  frock  damp  and  be 
draggled,  came  the  aged  mother.  She  seemed 
feeble  and  exhausted,  and  pausing  midst  the 
crowd,  gazed  wildly  into  the  cold,  unsympathetic 
faces  about  her,  exclaiming :  <(  My  poor  Tom 
never  did  that  awful  deed;  my  tender-hearted 
boy,  who  never  even  killed  a  bird." 

A  chorus  of  brutal  laughter  greeted  the  ap 
peal,  and  a  coarse  creature  cried  out :  ((  Give  us 
103 


Catherine. 

a  rest,  old  woman. M  A  second  chorus  of  brutal 
laughter  greeted  this  sally,  and  the  old  woman 
(notwithstanding  the  sultriness  of  the  morning) 
shivered  as  if  from  cold. 

The  courtroom  was  crowded  to  overflowing; 
not  a  loophole  of  escape  seemed  left  the  un 
fortunate  defendant.  There  were  blood-spots 
upon  his  clothing;  the  footprints  in  the  soft 
clay  about  the  door  of  the  murdered  family 
corresponded  to  a  nicety  with  the  size  of  his 
shoes;  and  yet  his  attorney  retained  implicit 
belief  in  his  innocence,  and  as  he  arose  to 
deliver  his  parting  address  to  the  jury  (upon 
whose  decision  hung  the  life  of  the  prisoner), 
his  voice  thrilled  with  enthusiasm,  and  his  coun 
tenance  seemed  to  emit  something  of  the  convic 
tions  which  he  so  deeply  felt.  Four  long  hours 
he  spoke,  and  never  had  a  speech  of  such  burning 
eloquence  been  delivered  in  the  courtroom  of 
Lawrence.  He  was  pleading  for  a  life,  that 
his  honest  convictions  told  him  was  about  to  be 
sacrificed  instead  of  one  upon  whom  the  awful 
crime  of  murder  really  rested.  He  spoke  of 
the  cornfield  surrounding  that  portion  of  the 
cabin  in  which  the  murdered  bodies  lay,  and  of 

104 


Catherine. 

a  man  who  had  been  employed  in  plowing  it 
the  entire  day  of  the  early  evening  upon  which 
the  murder  had  been  discovered.  Proved,  too, 
that  he  had  plowed  up  to  the  very  window  of 
the  room  in  which  the  bodies  lay  and  which 
he  must  necessarily  have  seen.  He  spoke  also 
of  the  peculiarity  of  this  plowman's  failing  to 
hear  the  piteous  cries  of  the  Taylor  babe,  which 
were  such  as  to  attract  the  attention  of  a  dis 
tant  laborer;  and  of  his  sudden  and  mysterious 
disappearance  upon  the  discovery  of  the  bodies. 

Judge  B —  succeeded  in  creating  well-founded 
doubt  as  to  the  guilt  of  his  client,  both  in  the 
minds  of  the  jury  and  the  furious  outside  ele 
ment.  Through  the  honest  convictions  and 
earnest  enthusiasm  of  his  attorney,  Tom  Headly 
was  saved  from  the  gallows;  but  circumstantial 
evidence  and  popular  prejudice  were  such  as  to 
render  imprisonment  for  life  inevitable. 

Who,  through  the  cold  medium  of  pen  and 
ink,  would  presume  to  portray  the  anguish  of 
the  poor  old  mother's  farewell  ?  What,  though 
to  the  world  the  hands  of  this  half-witted  in 
ebriate  were  steeped  in  the  blood  of  his  fellow- 
men,  was  he  not  to  the  mother  the  same  babe 
105 


Catherine. 

she  had  lulled  to  sleep  upon  her  bosom  ?  The 
little  Tom,  whose  childish  ways  had  once 
gladdened  her  lonely  life  ?  Ah !  the  height,  the 
depth,  the  breadth  of  a  mother's  love !  Who  can 
fathom  it  ? 

CHAPTER  V. 

FOR  the  early  dead  we  may  bow  the  head, 
And  strike  the  breast  and  weep  ; 

But  oh,  what  shall  be  said 
For  the  living  sorrow  ? 

EARLY  one  morning  in  the  latter  part  of  Au 
gust,  there  might  have  been  seen  slowly  wend 
ing  its  way  up  the  main  street  of  a  little  inland 
village  in  Indiana,  an  ox-cart  laden  with  sundry 
small  household  effects,  and  driven  by  an  aged 
woman.  Any  innovation  in  the  way  of  (<a  new 
comer w  to  this  village  was  a  sensation  worthy 
of  much  observation  and  comment;  and  this 
particular  morning,  from  the  residences  of  my 
ladies,  the  lawyer's  and  doctor's  wives,  down  to 
those  of  <(  the  butcher,  the  baker,  the  candlestick 
maker, w  various  heads  might  have  been  seen 
thrust  from  their  several  windows,  all  bent  upon 
observation. 

106 


Catherine. 

In  this  particular  village  there  stood  an  old 
cabin  in  which  once  upon  a  time  there  lived 
a  man  who  murdered  his  wife  and  afterwards 
took  his  own  life,  and  this  cabin  the  entire 
community  pronounced  ((  hanted,"  and  there 
fore  a  place  to  be  shunned  by  all  self-respecting 
individuals.  Why,  scarcely  a  week  after  the 
murder,  the  owner  of  the  cabin  having  spent  a 
day  repairing  it,  sickened  and  died  mysteriously 
that  self-same  night;  and  barely  a  fortnight 
afterward  his  son  fell  from  the  cabin  roof  and 
broke  his  arm.  It  was  enough,  then,  to  arouse 
suspicion  in  the  virtuous  breasts  of  the  horrified 
villagers,  when  this  new-comer,  scorning  the 
advice  of  the  entire  community,  ensconced  her 
self  therein.  For  a  month  after  her  arrival  this 
(<  brazen-faced  old  woman  w  (as  the  villagers  one 
and  all  termed  her)  was  discussed  with  great 
gusto  at  all  the  missionary  meetings;  although 
none  of  the  good  sisters  could  surmise  why  the 
wretched  old  creature  had  brought  an  ancient 
crib  and  a  bundle  of  baby  clothes  with  her. 

(<  Sich  a  forebodin'  lookin'  old  erector,  too,^ 
the  barber's  wife  had  remarked  to  the  butcher's, 
as  they  chatted  over  a  comfortable  cup  of  tea; 
107 


Catherine. 

and  the  comment  was  not  unwarranted.  Her 
form  was  bent,  her  gray  hair  hung  in  a  wild 
disheveled  mass  about  her  seamed  and  haggard 
countenance,  and  her  wide  blue  eyes  had  a 
half-crazed  look  in  them.  (C  Hear  how  she  mut 
ters  to  herself, w  said  the  preacher's  wife  to  her 
next-door  neighbor,  as  the  old  woman  passed  by. 
u  Who  knows, w  returned  the  other,  (<  but  that  the 
devil  has  taught  her  to  charm  evil  sperits. }) 

Had  it  been  a  century  earlier,  this  harmless 
old  woman  would  surely  have  been  burned  for 
a  witch.  She  had  an  odd  way,  too,  of  disap 
pearing  now  and  then,  for  a  week  at  a  time, 
when  suddenly  the  ox-cart  would  lumber  into 
the  village,  and  its  aged  occupant,  more  wretched 
and  forlorn  looking  than  ever,  would  hobble  out 
at  the  door  of  the  <(hanted  house,"  not  to  dis 
appear  again  for  mayhap  a  six  month  or  more. 

All  this  wras  extremely  puzzling  to  the  vil 
lagers,  toward  whom  the  old  woman  maintained 
the  strictest  secrecy  as  to  her  goings  and  com 
ings,  and  had  even  refused  to  gratify  their 
curiosity  regarding  her  past  history.  However, 
notwithstanding  the  fact  that  no  villager  ever 
crossed  her  threshold,  and  that  even  the  chil- 

108 


Catherine. 

dren  upon  the  streets  taunted  and  tormented 
her,  her  wonderful  knitting  and  sewing  (and  at 
half  price,  too)  were  not  to  be  despised  by  the 
village  merchants.  She  was  known,  too,  at  odd 
times,  to  take  a  turn  in  the  harvest  fields,  and 
was  reported  by  those  employing  her,  to  have 
given  <(  a'most  as  much  satisfaction  as  one  of  the 
reg'lar  hands. w  What  the  old  woman  did  with 
her  earnings  was  beyond  all  mortal  ken,  for  she 
stinted  herself  in  the  most  parsimonious  fashion. 

Affairs  went  on  at  this  rate  for  almost  five 
years,  when  the  village  pastor  (a  man  not  un 
like  his  people)  accepted  a  new  charge.  His 
successor,  an  aged  man  of  Southern  birth  (be 
ing  in  poor  health),  accepted  the  first  vacant 
pastorate  offering  a  change  of  climate.  The 
heart  of  this  big-souled  Southerner  was  so  full 
of  love  for  God  and  man,  that  he  seemed  lit 
erally  enveloped  in  a  perpetual  flood  of  sun 
shine;  and  who  ever  heard  of  sunshine  that  did 
not  penetrate  the  darkest  nook  and  cranny,  and 
smile  as  beneficently  upon  the  beggar  in  the 
gutter  as  upon  my  lord  in  his  carriage  ? 

The  Rev.  James  Proctor  Arnold  was  not  slow 
in  discovering  the  poor  old  woman,  who  for  five 

109 


Catherine. 

years  had  been  the  butt  of  the  entire  village. 
A  glance  at  the  pitiful  face,  with  its  great  sor 
rowful  eyes,  which  had  in  them  the  distressed 
look  of  some  poor  hunted  animal,  appealed  to 
the  good  man's  sympathy,  and  spoke  more  elo 
quently  than  words  could  have  done,  of  the 
silent  grief  of  a  broken  heart.  His  were  the 
first  feet  that  ever  crossed  her  humble  threshold, 
and  slowly,  and  by  degrees,  his  kindness  won 
her  confidence,  and  the  poor  old  woman,  so 
long  estranged  from  all  human  sympathy,  con 
fided  to  him  the  pitiful  tale  of  her  life;  a  tale 
more  sad  by  far  than  fiction's  pen  could  ever 
paint.  Sobbing  bitterly,  she  pointed  to  a  little 
time-worn  crib  (the  same  Tom  Headly  had 
fashioned  for  his  unborn  babe  so  long  ago). 

(< 'Tis  all  that's  left  me  now, w  she  moaned. 
Poor  empty  crib,  and  emptier  hands.  (<  I  could 
not  stay  where  they  believed  my  poor  good 
Tom  done  that  awful  deed,"  she  sobbed,  (<and 
so  I  come  here;  here  where  no  one  knows  him, 
or  speaks  his  name.  I  work  hard  —  oh,  so  hard, 
that  I  may  see  him  at  times,  and  take  him  some 
little  gifts;  but  oh,  he  hardly  knows  me.  He 
looks  so  wild,  and  shakes  his  head  —  his  poor 


Catherine. 

shaved  head  —  the  same  I  used  to  nestle  in  my 
bosom,  and  hush  to  sleep  in  yonder  little  crib. 
Oh,  God!  how  hard  —  how  hard  it  is  to  bear," 
and  the  poor  heart-broken  creature  rocked  her 
self  to  and  fro  in  anguish  which  none  but  a 
mother,  robbed  by  a  more  cruel  hand  than 
death,  can  ever  feel. 

CHAPTER  VI. 

WHO  knows  what  earth  needs,  from  earth's  lowest  creature, 
No  life  can  be  pure  in  its  purpose  and  strong  in  its  strife, 
And  all  life  not  be  purer  and  stronger  thereby. 

— Meredith. 

ANOTHER  August  day  had  come,  just  such  a 
sultry,  rainy  day  as  the  memorable  one  five 
years  before,  when  Tom  Headly  had  been  con 
victed  of  murder.  And  now,  in  the  rude  cabin 
she  called  her  home,  the  patient  hands  of  his 
poor  old  mother,  the  hands  which  had  never  be 
fore  faltered  in  their  ministry  of  labor  and  love, 
lay  idle  for  the  first  time.  The  fever,  which  for 
ten  days  had  racked  the  wasted  form  and  filled 
the  weary  brain  with  weird  fancies,  was  gone 
now,  and  over  the  wan  old  face  there  slowly 
crept  the  gray  shadow  of  death.  Beside  her 


Catherine. 

sat  the  village  pastor,  and  tenderly  as  might  a 
woman  have  done,  he  wiped  the  dews  of  death 
from  her  forehead.  Beseechingly  the  dying  eyes 
fastened  themselves  upon  his  face,  while  the 
wasted  toil-worn  hand  pointed  feebly  toward  a 
rude  wooden  box.  <(  The  chest, J>  she  murmured 
faintly.  Hastily  the  minister  carried  it  to  the 
bedside',  and  lifted  the  lid.  Rolls  of  newly- 
made  shirts  and  knitted  socks  were  neatly  folded 
therein,  and  beside  them  a  little  heap  of  money, 
the  carefully  saved  earnings  of  the  year.  (<  For 
—  T-Tom,"  she  gasped,  the  words  coming  with 
an  effort.  (<  Tom  shall  have  them,  my  good 
woman, w  answered  the  pastor  comfortingly.  <(  I 
will  take  them  to  him  myself,  and  explain  that 
they  were  the  last  gifts  of  his  mother. w  Deeper 
settled  the  gray  shadow  upon  the  pallid  face, 
and  more  difficult  grew  the  breathing.  <(  Come 
unto  me,  all  ye  that  labor  and  are  heavy  laden, 
and  I  will  give  you  rest.*'  Softly  and  distinctly 
the  man  of  God  repeated  the  beautiful  promise, 
but  the  dying  woman  heard  it  not.  The  poor 
mind  was  wandering  again,  and  in  fancy  she 
cradled  to  her  breast  the  babe  of  her  youth. 
(<  The  —  cr-crib  —  I'll  put  you  th-there  —  1-little 

112 


Catherine. 

—  Tom,8  she  gasped.  They  were  the  last  words 
she  uttered;  poor  old  Catherine  was  dead.  The 
weary  soul,  which  in  life  had  known  nothing 
but  pain,  had  gone  forth  to  that  inheritance 
promised  the  faithful.  <(  So  He  giveth  his  be 
loved  sleep, M  softly  repeated  the  minister,  as  he 
reverently  closed  the  eyes  of  the  dead. 

"  Honest  work  for  the  day,  honest  hope  for  the  morrow, 
Are  these  worth  nothing  more  than  the  hand  they  make  weary, 
The  heart  they  have  saddened,  the  life  they  leave  dreary  ? 
Hush!   the  seven-fold  heavens  to  the  voice  of  the  Spirit 
Echo:  He  that  o'ercometh  shall  all  things  inherit.  » 


THE  EXPERIENCE  OF  A  CORPSE 

OR 

THE   FIRST  NIGHT  UNDERGROUND 

«  «  « 

is  not  a  city  in  America  to  which 
nature  has  been  so  prodigal  of  her  gifts, 
as  the  beautiful  <(  forest  city  of  the  South, w 
Savannah,  Ga.  It  was  upon  my  first  visit  to 
Savannah  that  this  story  dates;  and  for  the 
benefit  of  any  disciple  of  Hamlin  Garland  who 
may  scan  its  grewsome  title,  let  me  frankly 
state  that  it  is  not  of  the  <(new  realistic  M  school, 
although  its  author  (to  coin  a  word  from  the 
new  school)  asserts  its  (<  veritism."  Early  in 
April,  1894,  I  was  seated  upon  the  veranda  of 
the  De  Soto,  listening  to  the  music  in  Madison 
Square,  and  chatting  with  my  old  friend  and 
college  chum,  Walter  Calhoun,  whom  I  had  not 

115 


The  Experience  of  a  Corpse. 

seen  for  five  years.  So  sedulous  had  Calhoun 
been  in  praise  of  a  beautiful  South  Carolinian 
(who,  with  her  widowed  mother,  was  to  arrive 
upon  the  day  following)  that  it  was  plain  to  be 
seen  the  shaft  of  the  wily  little  god  had  been 
unerring  in  its  aim.  "Well,  old  boy, w  I  ex 
claimed,  ((  who  would  ever  have  thought  to  find 
you  worshipping  at  the  shrine  of  Eros.  It  is 
not  worth  while  to  dissemble !  for  it  is  plain 
that  Cupid  has  marked  you  his  victim. w  Cal 
houn  lazily  blew  a  wreath  of  smoke  from 
beneath  his  tawny  mustache,  and  tossing  aside 
his  cigar,  replied :  (<  It  is  not  worth  my  while  to 
dissemble,  when  I  have  especially  invited  you 
here  to  help  me  decide  upon  a  difficulty  that 
has  tormented  my  brain  for  two  years.  Why 
there  never  was  a  schoolboy  more  foolishly  in 
love  than  your  humble  servant  Dr.  Walter  Cal 
houn,  forty  years  of  age,  and  a  confirmed  old 
bachelor. »  (<What  is  the  trouble,  Walt?"  I 
asked.  <(  Does  your  divinity  fail  to  reciprocate 
the  tender  passion  ?  w  (<  Upon  the  contrary, w  he  re 
plied,  <(  I  believe  that  she  fancies  me.  Indeed, 
a  score  of  fellows  have  urged  me  to  go  in  and 
win,  or  forego  the  chase  and  give  others  a  chance. 

116 


The  Experience  of  a  Corpse. 

You  see, w  he  continued,  dropping  his  voice  to  a 
confidential  tone,  c(  I  fear  the  mother  is  a  mono 
maniac,  and  yet  you  would  never  suspect  it 
unless  you  knew  her  intimately,  and  perhaps 
not  then.  At  times  I  fear  my  confounded  pro 
fession  has  imbued  me  with  a  morbid  terror  of 
that  accursed  malady,  and  yet  I  can  but  believe 
the  taint  is  there. w  <(  Perhaps  much  learning 
hath  made  thee  mad, B  I  returned,  (<  and  the 
fancied  insanity  is  but  a  hallucination  of  thine 
own  brain. w  (<  I  would  to  God  it  were  so, w  he 
replied  with  an  energy  that  startled  me.  <(  The 
mother, w  he  continued,  (<  is  reputed  to  be  worth 
several  million  dollars;  and  while  never  giving 
a  farthing  to  relieve  poverty  or  carry  on  the 
Gospel,  she  is  said  to  bequeath  hundreds,  nay 
thousands  of  dollars,  to  endow  crematories. 
(<  Perhaps  the  old  lady  acts  from  a  sanitary 
standpoint, w  I  replied,  (( and  prefers  assisting 
her  fellows  in  a  line  already  too  long  neglected; 
for  as  a  physician,  you  are  of  course  aware  that 
this  is  a  subject  agitating  the  minds  of  a  great 
many  scientists;  and  indeed,  in  my  own  opinion, 
it  is  but  the  feeble  mutterings  of  a  revolution, 
117 


The  Experience  of  a  Corpse. 

which  sooner  or  later  must  become  the  thunder 
of  a  demanding  and  fast  increasing  population. }) 
<(  Madame  Courtney  has  a  most  eloquent  de 
fender, w  returned  my  friend,  <(and  I  admit  that 
your  argument  is  not  without  reason;  but  I 
have  only  acquainted  you  with  a  portion  of  her 
peculiarities  upon  this  subject.  Believe  me,  I 
would  be  the  happiest  man  in  Savannah,  could 
I  convince  myself  that  she  is  not  mad;  for  the 
experiences  of  my  profession  have  been  such 
that  I  can  never  bring  myself  to  marry  one 
whose  blood  is  tainted  with  the  awful  heritage 
of  insanity;  and  yet,  for  two  years,  I  have  per 
mitted  myself  to  linger  under  the  spell  of  the 
charms  of  this  woman's  daughter,  hoping  against 
hope  that  I  may  find  myself  mistaken."  "Well, 
well,  old  fellow,  cheer  up, M  I  replied,  (<  for  I 
doubt  not  but  that  the  professional  experiences 
of  which  you  speak  have  rendered  you  morbid 
upon  this  subject,  and  that  after  all,  things  arc 
not  half  so  bad  as  you  picture  them.*'  <(At  any 
rate,w  returned  my  friend  arising,  <(  I  will  not 
burden  you  with  any  more  of  my  troubles 
to-night,  and  to-morrow  you  shall  have  an 

us 


The  Experience  of  a  Corpse. 

opportunity  of  judging  for  yourself, w  and  warmly 
wringing  my  hand,  we  bade  each  other  good 
night. 

I  admit  that  it  was  with  great  curiosity  that 
I  looked  forward  to  meeting  Madame  Courtney 
and  her  daughter  Catherine,  and  it  was  not 
until  the  following  evening  that  Calhoun  pre 
sented  them  to  me.  The  mother,  although 
rather  petite,  gave  one  the  impression  of  being 
somewhat  stately;  for  having  been  born  and 
reared  in  Charleston,  S.  C.,  she  had  that  digni 
fied  bearing,  and  queenly  old-time  grace,  which 
seems  the  heritage  of  the  Charlestonian.  The 
daughter  —  Ah!  how  can  I  describe  her?  She 
was  only  a  fair-faced,  golden-haired  girl.  I  had 
seen  many  faces  by  far  more  fair,  but  she  had 
a  magnetism,  a  certain  naivete  that  set  her 
apart;  a  strongly  marked  individuality  that 
claimed  your  attention  when  fairer  faces  than 
hers  were  near.  Perhaps  the  most  striking  fea 
ture  of  her  countenance  was  her  eyes,  now  blue 
as  the  azure  of  a  summer  sky,  again  grey  and 
flashing,  and  anon  —  a  pale  beryl,  like  a  sudden 
glimpse  of  old  ocean,  when  foam-tossed  it 
dimples  in  the  sunshine.  These  wonderful 

119 


The  Experience  of  a  Corpse. 

changeable  eyes  looked  out  from  under  a  pair  of 
straight  dark  brows.  These  formed  a  pretty  con 
trast  to  the  mass  of  golden  ringlets  which  curled 
about  the  broad  low  brow.  Upon  first  behold 
ing  these  two  faces,  I  was  curiously  impressed 
with  a  sense  of  their  familiarity,  although  quite 
positive  I  had  never  seen  either  of  them  before. 
It  was  as  if  two  portraits  with  \vhich  I  had 
been  familiar  from  childhood  had  suddenly  come 
to  life,  and  stepped  from  their  frames.  I  did 
not  reveal  my  impression  to  Calhoun,  but  I  felt 
sure  it  was  shared  by  the  fair  Catherine,  whom 
I  frequently  observed  gazing  at  me  in  a  per 
plexed  sort  of  way,  as  though  fain  to  solve  the 
mystery  which  puzzled  my  own  brain.  That 
night  my  dreams  were  troubled ;  I  was  vainly 
laboring  to  place  Madame  Courtney  and  pretty 
Catherine.  A  month  later,  having  been  thrown 
daily  into  the  society  of  the  two,  I  would  have 
sworn  that  Calhoun's  impression  of  Madame 
Courtney  was  an  absurd  delusion.  Never  by 
word  or  act,  had  she  betrayed  the  slightest 
symptom  of  hallucination.  On  the  contrary,  she 
was  all  that  a  brilliant,  cultured,  fascinating 
woman  can  be;  while  I  —  heaven  pity  me  —  was 

120 


The  Experience  of  a  Corpse. 

so  madly,  so  passionately  in  love  with  her 
daughter,  that  knowing  every  prolonged  mo 
ment  of  bliss  spent  at  her  side  but  added  to  the 
hopeless  misery  of  a  love  my  honor  forbade  me 
reveal,  still  lingered.  In  vain  I  pleaded  with 
Calhoun  to  offer  his  love  to  Catherine,  endeavor 
ing  to  make  him  feel  with  me  the  ridiculousness 
of  his  opinion  of  Madame  Courtney. 

Finally  he  came  to  me  one  morning  and  said : 
(( I  have  arranged  for  a  drive  to-night,  and  if 
you  will  make  one  of  the  party  I  will  prove 
the  truth  of  my  assertion  regarding  Madame 
Courtney's  mania.  I  have  but  one  request  to 
make:  assist  me  in  so  closely  engrossing  the 
ladies  in  conversation  that  they  will  fail  to 
observe  our  entrance  to  Bonaventure  ceme 
tery;  and  once  there,  note  its  impression  upon 
Madame  Courtney. w  Always  willing  to  please 
Calhoun,  and  anxious  to  draw  affairs  to  a  cli 
max,  I  consented.  It  was  a  perfect  evening 
for  a  drive,  and  as  we  whirled  down  the  broad 
avenues,  magnificent  in  their  rich,  flowery, 
tropical  foliage,  there  was  wafted  on  the  balmy, 
languorous,  flower-scented  air  the  merry  voices 
of  children  at  play,  mingled  with  the  clatter  of 

121 


The  Experience  of  a  Corpse. 

passing  vehicles,  and  the  peculiar  cries  of  an 
occasional  negro  fruit  or  vegetable  vender.  The 
beautiful  face  opposite  my  own  shone  fairer 
than  the  silvery  stars  in  the  azure  firmament, 
and  not  unlike  those  stars,  methought,  for 
ever  beyond  my  reach.  My  love  for  this  girl, 
in  its  intensity  and  utter  hopelessness,  had  be 
come  an  agony  well-nigh  unbearable,  and  it 
was  with  difficulty  that  I  assisted  in  engaging 
the  ladies  in  conversation,  while  the  carriage 
rolled  noiselessly  through  the  gates  of  the  grand 
old  cemetery.  The  last  crimson  rays  of  depart 
ing  day  seemed  suddenly  to  have  merged  into 
the  purple  shadows  of  twilight.  We  were  shut 
in  by  a  magnificent  archway,  a  grand  old  Gothic 
cathedral  not  made  by  hands,  the  architecture 
of  nature.  Gigantic  oaks  which  have  withstood 
the  storms  of  more  than  a  century,  reaching 
out  their  giant  limbs,  form  this  mighty  arch 
way;  and  gleaming  like  silver  sheen  among 
the  dark  green  leaves,  depends  such  heavy 
growth  of  old  gray  Spanish  moss,  as  to  give 
the  spot  a  weird,  almost  supernatural,  appear 
ance.  It  is  as  if  nature,  in  bedecking  this  hall 
way  of  her  dead,  had  placed  thereon  the  seal 


The  Experience  of  a  Corpse. 

of  solemnity.  The  sudden  merging  of  day  into 
twilight  attracted  the  attention  of  the  ladies, 
who  glanced  up  in  awe  at  the  solemn  beauty 
of  the  scene.  Suddenly  a  tombstone  gleamed 
white  in  the  distance.  A  wild  cry  of  terror 
rent  the  air.  <(  My  God  —  I  am  in  a  cemetery, M 
shrieked  Madame  Courtney,  and  fell  fainting  in 
her  daughter's  arms.  ((  How  dare  you  thus  dis 
regard  my  mother's  feelings,  knowing  her  aver 
sion  to  a  cemetery,  Dr.  Calhoun,"  asked  the 
daughter  sternly.  Calhoun,  muttering  an  apol 
ogy,  gave  an  order  to  the  driver,  who  turning 
the  horses  about,  drove  rapidly  to  Thunderbolt 
Inn,  where  no  time  was  lost  in  procuring  re 
storatives.  How  like  a  corpse  the  aged  woman 
looked,  as  in  the  fading  twilight  she  lay  pil 
lowed  within  the  tender  arms  which  refused  to 
be  released  of  their  burden.  Suddenly,  with  a 
deep  shuddering  groan  the  prostrate  woman 
opened  her  eyes  and  sat  up.  Although  shaking 
as  if  from  an  ague  fit,  she  seemed  possessed  of 
a  dormant  energy.  With  flashing  eyes  she 
turned  toward  Calhoun,  and  haughtily  ex 
claimed  :  <(  Through  your  utter  disregard  of  my 
feelings,  in  thus  exposing  me  to  suffering  you 
123 


The  Experience  of  a  Corpse. 

know  to  be  inevitable,  you  have,  sir,  forever 
forfeited  my  friendship. w  Calhotm  feebly  en 
deavored  to  remonstrate,  but  she  ignored  him, 
and  addressed  herself  to  me.  <c  You  have  known 
me  at  least  long  enough,  Mr.  De  Saussure,  to 
know  that  I  am  neither  erratic  or  superstitious, }> 
she  said,  (<  and  after  this  painful  scene,  I  feel 
that  an  explanation  is  due  from  me."  (<  Spare 
yourself,  my  dear  madame,  at  least  until  some  fu 
ture  time  when  you  are  stronger, w  I  replied.  <(  No 
—  I  must  speak  now,  when  I  feel  most  deeply,  * 
she  answered  imperiously.  It  was  a  strange, 
never-to-be-forgotten  scene.  The  fair  girl,  si 
lent,  and  with  a  scared  expression  upon  her 
lovely  countenance;  the  mother,  trembling,  im 
perious,  and  with  the  air  of  a  tragedy  queen; 
these  two  sat  facing  us.  Calhoun,  white  and 
wretched,  gazed  beseechingly  at  the  girl,  while 
I  waited  with  impatient  curiosity  the  result  of 
this  evening  so  tragic  in  its  beginning  and 
necessarily  so  momentous  in  its  results. 

<(  As  you  know, w  began  the  old  lady,  <(  I  am 
a  Buddhist;  and  our  religion,  so  ancient,  so 
beautiful,  so  long  despised  by  the  people  of  this 
nation,  is  at  last  finding  favor  with  some  of  its 

124 


The  Experience  of  a  Corpse. 

deepest  thinkers.  You  are  doubtless  aware  of 
our  belief  in  rebirth  and  constant  transmigra 
tion  of  soul  until  the  blissful  perfection  of  Nir 
vana  is  attained.  My  experience,  which  I  am 
about  to  relate,  and  which  altered  my  entire 
future,0  she  continued,  <(  dates  back  some  cen 
turies  ago,  when  I,  the  daughter  of  Christian 
parents,  lived  upon  this  earth,  died,  and  was 
given  the  usual  Christian  burial.  Perhaps  a 
vainer,  more  self-worshipful  creature  than  was 
I,  never  existed  (for  I  was  absolutely  beauti 
ful),  and  my  retribution  was  such  as  the  direst 
torture  of  a  Christian  hell  has  failed  to  portray. 

It     Was THE     EXPERIENCE     OF     A     CORPSE,     OR     THE 

FIRST  NIGHT  UNDERGROUND.  Oh,  ye  saints  of 
Buddha!  the  experience  of  that  first  night  un 
derground!  The  spirit  which  had  worshipped 
at  no  shrine  save  that  of  its  own  beautiful  body, 
was  compelled  (for  a  short  space  after  death) 
to  retain  its  tenement  of  clay.  Ah !  ye  gods,  the 
very  remembrance  of  that  night  is  enough  to 
drive  one  mad.  Deep  coffined  in  the  cold  sepul 
chral  ground,  far  from  all  the  sweet  familiar 
sights  and  sounds  of  nature !  Never  to  see  the 
sun  arise  in  his  majestic  splendor,  never  to 
125 


The  Experience  of  a  Corpse. 

hear  the  birds  sing,  or  to  smell  the  freshness 
of  the  morning  air!  Never  to  watch  the  moon 
drift  in  her  silver  radiance  among  the  clouds; 
or  the  stars  sparkle  like  jewels  in  the  vaulted 
heavens!  To  be  compelled  to  lie  in  that  loath 
some  bed  and  realize  the  face  I  worshipped  un 
dergo  all  the  hideous  changes  so  soon  to  rob  it 
of  its  divine  beauty!  To  watch  the  sinking  of 
the  features;  the  horror  of  decay  with  its  deadly 
work  of  worms,  and  at  the  end,  the  hideous, 
grinning,  socketless  skull !  But  why  torture  you 
with  the  repetition  of  an  experience  the  ghast- 
liness  of  which  baffles  human  skill  to  portray  ? 
One  night  to  me  was  as  a  hundred  years,  and 
this  experience  of  centuries  ago  lingers  in  my 
mind  with  more  intensity  than  do  the  occur 
rences  of  yesterday. 

When  released  from  the  hell  of  my  imprison 
ment,  I  sacredly  vowed  that  my  life  should  be 
more  humble,  and  that  I  would  spare  no  pains 
in  establishing  the  only  true  mode  of  burial; 
and  while  faithful  to  my  trust,  spending  my 
fortune  freely  to  this  end,  I  have  ever  been 
slow  in  repeating  the  experience  which  led 
thereto,  knowing  that  the  cold,  incredulous  world 

126 


The  Experience  of  a  Corpse. 

would  but  scoff  at  me."  Suddenly  —  as  one 
awakening  from  a  dream  I  reached  forward, 
and  seizing  the  old  lady's  hands  exclaimed: 
<(  Dear  Madame  Courtney,  something  stirs  my 
soul  as  in  a  dim,  vague  fancy.  I  seem  to  have 
heard  this  tale  centuries  ago  in  some  other  life. 
I  am  playing  upon  the  beach  with  a  little  girl 
whose  face  is  very  like  Catherine's,  her  name  — 
is  —  Coy. M  The  old  lady  started  violently. 
"Nirvana  of  the  saints  made  perfect, }>  she 
exclaimed,  <(  it  is  Catherine's  middle  name ;  it 
was  the  name  of  my  father;  go  on!  go  on!0 
(<We  reached  the  years  of  maturity, }>  I  con 
tinued,  <(  and  I  loved  Coy,  as  I  never  loved  any 
thing  else  on  earth.  We  were  to  have  been 
married,  when  something  intervened  which  pre 
vented  it;  but  it  is  all  as  a  dream  to  me.  A 
dream  from  which  I  seem  to  have  awakened 
before  it  was  finished. w  <(  Pennoyer, w — it  was 
Catherine  who  spoke,  and  she  called  me  by 
my  mother's  name.  Softer  than  the  zephyrs, 
sweeter  than  the  magnolia  blooms  which  they 
kissed,  was  her  voice,  while  her  face  shone 
with  the  tranfiguration  of  a  passionate,  idol 
atrous  love.  <(  Then  you  have  not  forgotten 
127 


The  Experience  of  a  Corpse. 

your  Coy  —  you  love  me  still.  *  There  seemed 
nothing  unmaidenly  in  the  girl's  advance;  on 
the  contrary,  she  was  the  embodiment  of  mod 
esty,  and  simple  naivete.  <(  Surely  Pennoyer — w 
she  went  on,  <(  you  remember  our  last  even 
ing  together  upon  the  beach  ?  How  soon  I 
should  have  become  your  wife,  had  not  my 
jealous  and  cowardly  cousin  taken  your  life. 
Ah  me !  how  in  my  anguish  I  longed  for 
death. w  She  was  kneeling  at  my  feet  now, 
clasping  both  of  my  hands  in  her  own  little 
fair  ones.  How  vividly  from  the  dull  rust  of 
bygone  years,  came  back  the  memory  of  my 
last  evening  with  this  girl  whom  I  had  wor 
shipped  so  madly  —  who  was  to  have  been  my 
wife  —  and  yet  whose  very  name  I  had  for 
gotten  until  the  present  moment.  Was  it  all  a 
dream  ?  No  —  my  hands  clasped  firmly  the 
little  fingers  placed  so  confidingly  within  them. 
I  forgot  the  presence  of  others,  and  lived  but 
in  the  past,  as  I  clasped  to  my  heart  once 
more,  the  beautiful  creature  who  knelt  at  my 
feet  —  covering  her  face,  her  lips,  her  brow, 
with  passionate  kisses. 

I   was   aroused   from   my  happy  forgetfulness 
128 


The  Experience  of  a  Corpse. 

by  the  shrill  voice  of  Calhoun  calling  the  driver 
to  stop.  I  had  forgotten  his  presence,  and 
glanced  at  him  now  for  the  first  time.  His 
face  was  set  and  livid,  like  that  of  a  corpse. 
<(  Stop,  driver, °  he  shrieked  wildly,  <(  that  I  may 
rid  myself  of  these  cursed  lunatics  while  I  am 
still  sane;"  and  dashing  himself  from  the  vehi 
cle,  he  disappeared.  The  evening  paper  of  the 
following  day  chronicled  the  sudden  departure 
of  Dr.  Walter  Calhoun  for  New  York,  from 
whence  he  would  sail  for  Europe  to  remain  in 
definitely;  and  as  the  engagement  of  his  friend 
to  the  beautiful  South  Carolinian  was  announced 
soon  after,  it  was  pretty  generally  believed  by 
Madame  Grundy  and  her  host  of  followers  that 
the  engagement  had  much  to  do  with  the  Doc 
tor's  sudden  departure.  There  are  few  in  this 
materialistic  age  who  will  give  credence  to  this 
tale,  as  happy  in  its  sequel  as  it  is  grewsome 
in  title.  It  would  be  difficult  to  find  a  happier 
couple  than  myself  and  wife;  while  my  mother- 
in-law  (whose  aid-de-camp  I  am  in  abetting  all 
her  efforts  toward  reform  in  burial)  pronounces 
me  (<the  best  fellow  in  the  world."  Should 
you,  my  reader,  chance  in  the  near  future  to 
9  129 


The  Experience  of  a  Corpse. 

find  yourself  in  the  proud  old  city  of  Charleston, 
S.  C.,  and  while  strolling  along  its  battery  be 
hold  the  erection  of  a  palatial  mansion,  you 
will  please  to  remember  it  is  the  future  resi 
dence  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  George  Pennoyer  De 
Saussure,  and  their  loved  mother,  whose  gift  it 
is  to  her  children.  For  the  benefit  of  the  in 
credulous,  I  will  add  that  Dr.  P. — ,  one  of  Sa 
vannah's  most  prominent  physicians,  and  brave 
soldiers  who  wore  the  gray,  will  bear  me  out 
as  to  the  idiosyncrasies  of  Madame  Courtney, 
whom  he  has  often  heard  relate  her  <(  experi 
ence  of  a  corpse,  or  the  first  night  under 
ground.  M 


130 


LOVE'S  FIRST  CONQUEST 

LEGGENDARIO 

«  «  « 
^fpN  the  prehistoric  ages,  before   the  world  was 

s|lra 

fp  peopled,  and  Eros,  child  of  Heaven  and 
Earth  dwelt  here  alone,  Spring  and  Autumn 
had  never  had  a  birth.  In  the  southern  land 
of  sunshine  and  blue  skies  perpetual  Summer 
reigned,  while  in  the  far-off  north  grim  Winter 
forever  held  his  sway. 

In  a  spot  on  the  banks  of  the  Nile,  where  in 
the  early  morn  lotus  blossoms  opened  their  blue 
eyes  to  greet  the  sun,  which  in  majestic  splen 
dor  blazed  in  the  heavens  like  a  globe  of  fire ; 
and  where  the  feathery  palm-tree,  airy  acacia, 
and  fragrant  mimosa  grow  in  all  their  luxuri- 
ousness,  entwined  in  vines  which  trail  in  wild 
profusion,  until  their  varied  and  gorgeous  blos 
soms  float  in  brilliant  colors  upon  the  crimson 


Love's  First  Conquest. 

tinted  waters  of  the  Nile,  in  this  spot  of  bright 
ness,  warmth,  and  tropical  luxury,  dwelt  young 
Eros,  child  of  Love. 

This  had  been  the  trysting  place  of  Heaven 
and  Earth,  and  the  birthplace  of  their  child. 
He  reveled  in  the  beauty  about  him,  for  while 
from  one  parent  he  inherited  purity  and  rcsthet- 
icism,  from  the  other  he  partook  of  the  deepest 
capability  for  sensuous  enjoyment;  and  these 
elements,  seemingly  at  variance,  were  the  neces 
sary  constituents  to  a  perfect  nature. 

Hither  and  thither  wandered  the  lad  at  his 
own  sweet  will.  Gorgeous-hued  birds  flocked  to 
his  call,  and  ferocious  beasts  of  the  desert 
fawned  at  his  feet  with  the  docility  of  the  lamb, 
for  the  mysticism  of  Heaven  was  his. 

At  times  the  young  god  tired  of  the  sights 
and  sounds,  the  beasts  and  birds  about  him,  and 
longed  for  conquest  and  more  extended  fields; 
for  within  his  soul  slept  the  embryo  germ, 
which  in  future  years  was  to  make  him  con 
queror  of  the  world. 

Could  he  have  realized  the  extended  realm, 
that  in  after  years  evolution  should  assign  him ; 
could  he  have  beheld  the  entire  earth  peopled, 


Love's  First  Conquest. 

and  himself  crowned  conqueror  of  them  all, 
more  patiently  would  his  soul  have  possessed 
itself;  but  though  immortal,  he  knew  nothing 
of  his  destiny,  and  his  heart  panted  with  the 
inborn  desire  of  a  conqueror. 

One  afternoon,  when  the  African  sun  burned 
fiercely  in  the  Heavens,  and  not  a  breeze  stirred 
the  palm-trees  above  his  head,  young  Eros  in 
dulged  in  fanciful  dreams  of  the  far-off  land  of 
ice  and  snow. 

(<  Naught  could  be  more  beautiful, n  he  mur 
mured,  <(than  this  sensuous  spot  of  warmth  and 
fragrance  which  gave  me  birth,  and  yet  my 
soul  pineth  for  a  glimpse  of  the  far-off  moun 
tains  of  the  north,  for  a  breath  from  its  cool 
pine  forests;  yet  —  how  dare  I  venture  to  that 
spot  where  perpetual  Winter  reigns. H  Long  he 
pondered  in  silence,  when  suddenly,  with  a  glad 
cry  he  sprang  to  his  feet.  The  fertility  of  his 
imagination  had  given  birth  to  a  sudden  in 
spiration,  which  filled  his  soul  with  wild  joy. 
He  laughed  aloud,  as  hastily  he  entwined  his 
bow  and  arrow  in  a  brilliant  mass  of  flowers. 
Great  wreaths  of  the  same  festooned  his  body, 
and  adorned  his  neck  and  brow.  As  he  moved 


Love's  First  Conquest. 

swiftly  forward,  the  sun  gleaming  blood-bright 
among  the  floating  gold  of  his  tresses,  and 
glancing  among  the  scarlet  and  purple  of  the 
brilliant  flowers  which  adorned  him,  he  made  a 
fitting  picture  for  the  rich  coloring  and  gorgeous 
tropical  beauty  about  him.  Swift  as  the  wind 
moved  the  god,  his  fair  body  and  burnished 
tresses  absorbing,  as  he  went,  the  fierce  intens 
ity  of  the  African  sun. 

<(  Burn  fierce,  and  fiercer  still,"  he  cried. 
<c  Thou  sun  which  blazeth  like  a  globe  of  fire 
in  heaven's  clear  blue,  send  down  thy  fiery 
shafts  until  they  pierce  my  soul,  permeate  my 
being,  and  make  me  thy  very  child;  for  to-day 
go  I  forth  upon  my  first  mission.  Without  thee 
I  fail,  by  thy  aid  I  stand  the  proud  conqueror 
of  a  mighty  achievement;  for  I  seek,  O  Sun! 
to  melt  the  heart  of  the  cold,  unapproachable 
North,  that  mine  own  fair  clime,  and  thine,  may 
find  favor  in  his  sight.  I  seek  by  device,  known 
alone  to  Love,  and  by  the  soft,  sweet  amorous 
wooing  of  our  own  fair  land,  to  kiss  to  life  the 
hidden  passion  of  his  frozen  heart,  until  in  fond 
desire  he  clasp  the  Southland  close,  and  print 
upon  her  burning  lips  a  nuptial  kiss. w 
134 


Love's  First  Conquest. 

Thus  spoke  Eros,  child  of  Love.  And  the 
Sun  replied:  — 

<(Lo!  thou  child  of  Heaven  and  Earth,  be 
hold,  thou  shalt  reign  forever,  and  all  things 
above  and  beneath  shall  be  subject  to  thee. 
Speed  on,  bear  in  thine  arms  and  upon  thy 
bosom  the  sensuous  warmth  and  fragrance  of 
our  own  fair  land  of  sunshine  and  blue  skies; 
and  fear  thou  not,  for  in  the  land  of  eternal  win 
ter,  where  never  a  flower  bloomed,  they  shall  not 
depart  from  thee,  for  they  are  thine  heritage.8 

Once  more  the  yoiing  god  laughed  aloud, 
while  onward,  with  the  velocity  of  the  wind,  he 
sped,  never  wearying,  until,  lo!  a  dazzling  thing 
of  fragrance,  warmth,  and  beauty,  he  paused 
upon  the  threshold  of  the  land  of  eternal  snow. 
Mightier  than  the  coming  of  a  host  of  armed 
kings  were  the  silent  footsteps  of  the  god  of 
love,  as  burning  with  the  warmth  of  his  tropical 
sunland,  his  rosy  feet  rested  upon  the  snow-clad 
mountains  of  the  far-away  north.  A  tall  pine 
tree  shook  its  fringe  of  feathery  snow  upon  his 
sunny  head,  and  the  fierce  blast  of  winter  whis 
tled  about  his  unprotected  form,  but  this  child 
of  fire  and  flame  heeded  them  not. 


Love's  First  Conquest. 

(<  I  come,  O  North ! J>  he  cried,  (<  in  the  name 
of  the  fair  Sunland  of  perpetual  summer.  See, 
I  have  borne  her  to  thee  within  mine  arms, 
and  upon  my  bosom. w  But  the  cold  North 
opened  not  his  frozen  lips. 

<(  See,  O  Northland !  is  she  not  beautiful  ? w 
cried  Eros,  as  for  an  instant  the  sunland 
gleamed  athwart  his  vision.  Shyly  the  flower- 
like  face  of  Summer  smiled  into  the  cold  face 
of  Winter,  as  softly  she  approached  him,  shed 
ding  with  every  step  a  shower  of  sensuous  fra 
grance.  Upon  his  regal  head  she  placed  a 
wreath  of  blossoms,  and  soft,  her  fair  young 
fingers  touched  his  brow,  and  warm,  her  fra 
grant  breath  caressed  his  cheek.  Strange  thrills 
ran  through  his  gigantic  being;  a  warmth  he 
ne'er  had  felt  before  penetrated  his  veins  and 
caused  the  mighty  heart  to  throb,  which  naught 
had  ever  agitated.  The  warm  magnetic  touch 
exhilarated  him,  the  fair,  luminous  presence  in 
toxicated  him,  while  to  her  the  inflexible  im 
penetrability  of  his  majestic  bearing  pleased  and 
overawed  her.  .Each  stood,  magnetized,  gazing 
upon  the  other  in  speechless  rapture.  Only  an 
instant  did  the  flower-soft  touch  of  Summer  lin- 
136 


Love's  First  Conquest. 

ger  upon  the  brow  of  Winter;  only  an  instant 
did  her  fragrant  breath  float  across  his  cheek. 
Fair  Summer  knew  her  power,  coquettishly  she 
turned  away  —  when,  lo!  his  hauteur  vanished 
like  the  mist  before  the  sun,  and  stretching  forth 
his  mighty  arms,  closely  he  circled  her  fair  form, 
crying  in  voice  as  deep  as  distant  thunder:  — 

(<  Come  to  me,  O  thou  beauteous  bride  of  the 
fair  land  of  summer. w  And  in  that  close  em 
brace  the  Earth  reeled  and  trembled,  and  as 
their  lips  met  in  one  long  nuptial  kiss  the  fields 
of  snow  melted  from  the  earth  like  a  river  and 
were  absorbed  by  the  luminous  presence  of  Sum 
mer,  whose  fair  hands  strewed  flowers  in  their 
stead. 

Two  flower-tipped  arrows  had  sped  from  the 
unerring  hand  of  the  designing  Eros,  accom 
plishing  their  purpose;  and  peeping  from  be 
hind  a  clump  of  pines,  his  sunny  locks  gemmed 
with  their  melting  snow,  he  laughed  aloud  in 
joyfulness,  and  with  the  proud  tread  of  a  con 
queror,  sped  back  on  swift  wings  to  his  sunny 
nook  on  the  banks  of  the  River  Nile,  there  to 
laugh  and  dream  of  how,  through  him,  fair 
Summer  had  conquered  and  slain  proud  Winter. 


Love's  First  Conquest. 

Forgotten  were  the  beasts  and  birds,  which  in 
bygone  days  had  eharmed  his  careless  hours, 
and  for  one  whole  long  year  the  little  god  sat 
still  and  smiled,  and  dreamed  about  the  mys 
teries  of  life  and  love.  And  then  —  once  more 
he  hied  him  to  the  spot  where  fair  queen  Sum 
mer  had  conquered  her  lord. 

When,  lo!  there  awaited  him  a  mystery  by 
far  more  great;  for  up  into  his  face  there  smiled 
two  lovely  twins,  the  offspring  of  the  mystic 
union  of  the  seasons.  Young  Spring  —  so  like 
her  mother  in  all  tender  loveliness,  and  sturdy 
Autumn,  softened  type  of  his  stern  father. 

Hence,  in  the  prehistoric  ages,  Love  first  es 
tablished,  through  birth  of  those  fair  babes,  that 
law  which  men  still  seek  to  understand,  the  phi 
losophy  of  (<  the  survival  of  the  fittest. >} 


138 


A   CONFEDERATE    FOR   A  DAY 


is  possible  that  the  older  residents  of  the 
historical  <(  Hill  City,w  Lynch  burg,  Va.,  will 
recognize  in  the  hero  of  this  little  tale  one  of 
her  prominent  business  men;  and  among  the 
splendid  galaxy  who  wore  the  gray  and  whose 
proud  names  and  heroic  deeds  will  descend  in 
historic  glory  to  unborn  nations,  none  were 
more  brave  than  Lynchburg's  (<  Confederate  for 
a  day."  He  was  such  a  tiny  tot,  blue  eyed  and 
golden  haired,  but  no  heart  throbbed  with 
greater  loyalty  to  the  Southern  cause  than  that 
of  this  little  embryo  soldier.  Longings  to  join 
the  splendid  company  which  marched  so  proudly 
from  the  Hill  City  under  General  Jubal  Early's 
command  filled  the  breast  of  the  little  lad,  but 
alas!  —  he  was  only  ten  years  old,  and  such  a 
little  lad  at  that.  Visions  of  how  strategy  might 
139 


A  Confederate  for  a  Day. 

prevail  filled  his  small  brain ;  and  when  brothers 
followed  father  in  the  proudest,  bravest  army 
that  ever  graced  the  globe,  his  resentment  of 
the  barrier  of  youth  knew  no  limit.  By  con 
tinual  imploring  he  had  prevailed  upon  his 
brothers  to  make  him  a  cannon  large  enough 
to  carry  a  minie  ball,  and  he  became  very  dex 
terous  in  the  use  of  it.  There  is  perhaps  no 
life,  consumed  by  any  earnest  desire,  that  the 
longing  is  not  in  some  sense  gratified,  and  the 
gala-day  of  this  boy's  life  came  to  him  when 
Jubal  Early  marshalled  his  forces  and  beat  back 
Hunter's  army  in  their  attempt  to  take  Lynch- 
burg.  Little  dreamed  the  fond  mother,  as  she 
prayed  at  home  while  the  distant  din  of  battle 
sent  terror  to  her  heart,  that  in  the  rear  of  that 
army,  marching  with  the  boys  in  gray,  triumph 
ant  of  heart,  and  carrying  his  little  cannon  in 
hand,  was  her  golden-haired  baby.  All  day  long- 
was  heard  the  ceaseless  boom  of  cannon  and  the 
hail  of  shells  was  continuous  —  but  the  boy  felt 
no  alarm.  Proudly  he  fired  his  cannon  with  the 
rest,  and  as  the  smoke  poured  forth,  and  the 
sound  added  to  the  tumult  which  led  to  Hunter's 
retreat,  his  heart  beat  high  with  hope  that  he 

140 


A  Confederate  for  a  Day. 

might  at  least  have  lessened  the  Yankee  force  by 
one.  But  the  heart  of  childhood,  after  all,  how 
full  of  love  and  forgiveness  it  is  (as  the  sequel  of 
this  tale  will  prove),  and  how  beautiful  an  ex 
ample  of  the  Master's  words:  (<  Unless  ye  become 
as  one  of  these. w  The  day  drew  to  a  close,  and 
Hunter  had  retired,  leaving  victory  to  the  boys 
in  gray,  and  they,  slowly,  and  worn  with  excite 
ment,  marched  back  to  the  city.  The  little  sol 
dier's  brother,  splendid  in  his  uniform  of  gray, 
and  proud  in  the  glory  of  his  sixteen  years,  was 
among  the  soldiers  stationed  that  day  at  Mor- 
man's  Fort;  and  when,  upon  reaching  Halsey's 
farm  that  evening,  he  found  little  Edward  await 
ing  him,  his  golden  curls  matted,  his  little  face 
begrimed  with  powder,  great  was  his  surprise. 
(<  I  say,  Jimmie,"  said  the  child,  as  the  soldiers 
marched  away,  <(  let  us  go  back  over  the  field 
and  hunt  things. w  Jimmie  was  but  a  child,  too; 
it  was  only  since  he  had  donned  the  gray  that 
he  (<  put  off  childish  things, w  and  he  replied : 
(<A11  right,  Ed,  run  on  and  I'll  sit  here  and 
wait  for  you;  but  mind,  you  musn't  be  gone 
long. M 

The   child  sauntered   on,   picking  up  here  and 
141 


A  Confederate  for  a  Day. 

there  grim  reminders  of  the  day's  carnage, 
when  suddenly  he  espied  a  trophy  he  had  not 
counted  upon.  A  gleam  of  hated  blue  greeted 
his  eyes  from  beneath  a  clump  of  bushes;  a 
real,  live  Yankee.  <(  Gemany ! "  muttered  the 
lad,  (<if  only  Jimmie  had  come  along  we  might 
have  captured  him."  <(Hey!  boy!w  called  the 
soldier.  Some  of  the  courage  he  had  felt  when 
the  cannons  were  roaring  and  the  gray  uni 
forms  thick  about,  suddenly  deserted  him.  He 
was  all  alone  now,  and  face  to  face  with  a 
Yankee  soldier.  "Don't  be  scared,"  called  the 
soldier,  <(  I  ain't  going  to  .hurt  you;  I  just  want 
to  know  if  there  are  any  more  rebel  soldiers 
around. "  Thoughts  of  diplomacy  in  so  small  a 
bosom  never  entered  the  blue  coat's  mind. 
Suddenly  the  boy's  courage  returned  with  re 
doubled  force.  Visions  of  taking  this  Yank  by 
strategy  filled  the  bosom  of  the  little  "Johnny." 
(<  I  should  say  so ! "  he  replied.  (( The  woods 
are  just  full  of  them,  and  Jubal  Early 's  army 
just  below  you  yonder.  You're  not  the  first  one 
they  have  shot  spying  on  our  ground."  ((A11 
right, "  replied  the  soldier.  (( Go  bring  your 
men  and  tell  them  I  surrender." 

142 


A  Confederate  for  a  Day. 

Off  ran  u  the  Confederate  of  a  day. w  It  was 
the  one  supreme  moment  of  his  life.  He 
was  breathless.  His  words  came  by  starts. 
(<  Brother !  w  he  exclaimed,  <(  I've  caught  one.  A 
scared  live  Yankee.  He  thinks  these  woods  are 
full  of  us.  He's  surrendered  —  he  wants  to  be 
took. w  When  did  the  fear  of  danger  ever  pre 
sent  itself  to  Southern  heart  ?  (( Oh  !  is  that  all 
he  wants, w  replied  the  young  soldier,  proudly 
straightening  himself  to  his  full  height.  (<  Well, 
I'll  take  him  all  right. })  Just  then  a  young 
lieutenant  came  up,  and  together  the  three 
went  forward,  and  took  charge  of  the  sur 
rendered  soldier.  (( He's  my  man*  said  little 
Ed  as  he  proudly  led  the  way ;  (<  you  all  only 
have  a  hand  in  this,  'cause  you  got  on  uni 
form*  ((A11  right,  Eddie, w  laughed  the  young 
lieutenant.  (<  We  will  give  you  all  the  glory, 
and  we  will  take  the  spoils*  The  soldier  in 
question  was  but  a  lad,  too;  a  mere  boy  of 
eighteen;  he  disarmed  the  boy  in  blue.  A  few 
hundred  feet  from  the  prisoner  was  hitched  his 
magnificent  bay.  (<  I'll  take  charge  of  the  horse, w 
said  the  lieutenant;  and  carrying  the  Yankee's 
arms,  he  rode  proudly  away,  while  the  boy  in 

H3 


A  Confederate  for  a  Day. 

blue,  weary  and  downcast,  marched  slowly  be 
tween  the  two  brothers  to  Lynchburg.  Little 
Edward  began  to  feel  sorry  for  the  prisoner  now 
that  he  had  lost  his  liberty,  and  the  beautiful  holi 
ness  of  childhood  asserted  itself,  and  was,  after 
all,  but  an  illustration  of  the  fact  (made  promi 
nent  by  General  John  B.  Gordon  in  his  elo 
quent  lecture  upon  (The  Last  Days  of  the 
Confederacy'),  that  never  in  the  annals  of  his 
tory  had  such  an  interchange  of  kindness 
existed  as  that  shown  between  the  North  and 
South  in  the  late  Civil  War. 

(<Aint  you  all  hungry  ? "  asked  the  child. 
<(  Yes, "  replied  the  prisoner,  <(  I  have  had  nothing 
to  eat  for  twenty-four  hours. "  <(  Never  mind, w 
answered  the  boy,  (<  when  I  see  whereabouts 
they  put  you,  I'll  carry  you  something  to  eat. 
Where  are  you  all  from  ? "  <(  From  Philadel 
phia,  M  was  the  reply.  "Oh!"  cried  the  child, 
<(  You  know  my  uncle,  and  my  Cousin  Jirnmie  ?  " 
<(  Philadelphia  is  a  big  place,  lad, "  answered  the 
soldier.  (<Well,  they  live  in  that  part  you  call 
Bridesburg!  "  said  the  boy.  (<  Oh,  I  know  every 
one  there;  that  is  my  home,"  answered  the 
soldier.  (<  What  are  their  names  ? "  The  boy 

144 


A  Confederate  for  a  Day. 

gave  them.  <(  Why,  Jimmie  is  my  best  friend," 
he  replied.  More  and  more  downcast  grew 
wthe  Confederate  of  a  day."  Closely  he  fol 
lowed  the  boy  in  blue,  waiting  until  he  found 
him  imprisoned  in  the  office  of  the  Provost 
Marshal  (the  room  now  over  Gregory's  book 
store),  and  then  hastening  to  his  anxious 
mother  he  poured  into  her  astonished  ears  his 
adventures  of  the  day.  He  had  captured  Cousin 
Jimmie's  friend  —  the  friend  was  starving — and 
he  had  promised  him  food.  What  Southern 
mother,  think  you,  ever  refused  a  hungry  sol 
dier  food,  though  his  garments  were  blue  in 
stead  of  gray  ?  A  smoking  hoe-cake,  between 
the  buttered  slices  of  which  rested  generous 
slices  of  ham,  was  soon  in  the  hands  of  the 
eager  little  lad,  who  sped  quickly  toward  the 
office  of  the  Provost  Marshal,  where  further 
difficulties  awaited  him,  the  guard  positively 
refusing  to  permit  him  to  pass.  (<  But  I  will 
pass, "  he  exclaimed.  <(  I  done  took  that  Yankee 
prisoner,  and  I  promised  to  tote  him  some 
thing  to  eat,  and  I'm  going  to  give  it  to  him 
myself,  too."  (<  You  can't  pass,"  said  the  guard, 
(<  if  you  give  me  the  food  I'll  see  that  he  gets 
10  145 


A  Confederate  for  a  Day. 

it."  "I'll  not  give  it  to  you,"  answered  the 
boy  stoutly.  <(  I  know  —  you  all  want  to  eat  it 
yourselves."  One  of  the  lad's  brothers  was  a 
telegraph  messenger  boy,  and  often  passed  the 
guards  with  messages.  So,  nothing  daunted,  the 
determined  boy  hastened  to  Major  Gault,  then 
in  command,  where  permission  to  pass  was  in 
stantly  granted  him.  The  guard  displayed  his 
white  teeth  in  a  broad  smile  as  he  passed  the 
lad,  and  exclaimed :  (<  You'll  get  thar  boy. 
You'd  bribe  Peter  for  the  key,  if  you  couldn't 
get  into  glory."  <(  I  got  a  sure  passport  there — " 
said  the  boy  brightly.  (<  I  won't  have  to  do 
any  red-tape  business."  A  moment  later  the 
grateful  food  was  placed  in  the  hands  of  the 
half-famished  soldier,  and  hastening  to  a  near 
spring,  the  child  procured  him  a  bucket  of 
water.  A  few  days  later  the  soldier  was  ex 
changed.  Years  have  come  and  gone  since 
then,  and  faithfully,  but  in  vain,  sought  <(  the 
Confederate  of  a  day,"  for  that  Bridesburg  boy 
in  blue.  Among  the  mighty  phalanx  of  un 
known  dead,  he  sleeps  in  Southern  soil,  un 
mindful  that  his  ashes  mingle  with  that  of 
those  who  wore  the  gray.  And  not  until  our 
146 


A  Confederate  for  a  Day. 

(( Confederate  of  a  day w  hears  the  command 
from  the  Great  General  of  the  universe  to 
<(  Come  up  higher, M  shall  he  meet  and  greet 
the  soldier  boy  in  blue,  where  blue  and  gray 
blend  in  harmony  as  fair  as  in  the  clouds 
which  sweep  the  heavens. 


147 


THE   TWO   HAT   PINS 

«  «  * 

jpN  the  daintiest  of  a  dainty  boudoir  in  a  pala- 
<§b  tial  home  in  Louisville,  Kentucky  (city  of 

*^\ff* 

beautiful  women),  within  a  Dresden  jewel-case 
lay  two  hat  pins,  still  warm  from  contact  with 
the  golden-brown  head  against  which  they  so 
recently  nestled.  One  was  a  jeweled  thing  of 
beauty,  an  amethyst  of  unusual  size,  purity,  and 
warmth,  surrounded  by  diamonds;  the  other,  a 
Confederate  button,  bearing  the  South  Carolina 
coat  of  arms,  and  the  familiar  motto,  (( Parati 
animis  opibusque." 

<(  You  are  a  pretty  thing, w  exclaimed  the  jew 
eled  pin  to  the  button,  <(  to  be  placed  upon  so 
familiar  a  footing  with  me;  and  I  wish  you  to 
know  in  the  beginning,  there  can  be  no  inti 
macy  between  us;  for  although  your  companion 
ship  be  forced  upon  me,  I  shall  ignore  you.  I 
am  a  Tiffany  pin  of  the  purest  \vater,  while 

149 


The  Two  Hat  Pins. 

you  are  merely  a  gold- washed  brass  button, 
which  none  but  a  dowdy  Southern  girl  would 
dream  of  associating  with  me. B 

w  I  cannot  boast  of  wealth  or  precious  stones, w 
replied  the  button,  (<  but  true  to  the  land  of  my 
birth,  I  am  proud  of  the  record  which  money 
cannot  buy,  and  which  was  won  through  valor 
and  bloodshed.  I  graced  the  sleeve  of  as  brave 
an  arm  as  ever  carried  Southern  flag,  and  for 
four  long  weary  years  faithfully  we  bore  the 
Florida  flag  (barring  the  time  we  languished  in 
Northern  prison) ;  and  now,  right  proud  am 
I  to  grace  the  head  of  one  who  prizes  me  for 
what  I  am  worth. M 

The  conversation  was  interrupted  by  the  en 
trance  of  the  owner  of  the  pin,  accompanied  by 
a  girl  friend,  who,  bending  over  the  case, 
eagerly  grasped  the  button,  and  studied  it  care 
fully. 

(<  Mary !  w  she  exclaimed,  (( You  always  were 
the  luckiest  girl  in  creation  in  the  realization 
of  all  your  desires.  Why,  I  have  asked  every 
soldier  in  Louisville  for  a  real  Confederate  but 
ton,  and  while  each  has  promised  me  one,  all 
their  promises  remain  unfulfilled. w 

150 


The  Two  Hat  Pins, 

(<  Did  you  ever  see  a  Kentucky  man  who 
would  refuse  a  woman  his  head,  if  she  asked 
it,"  answered  the  proud  owner  of  the  button, 
(<  but  to  give  it  to  her,  that  is  a  different  mat 
ter.  » 

<(  I  would  give  anything  for  such  a  hat  pin, " 
went  on  the  friend.  (( Did  you  say  it  was  a 
South  Carolina  or  a  Florida  man  who  gave  it 
to  you,  Mary  ?  " 

"Both,"  laughed  the  girl;  "Captain  Smith  is 
a  South  Carolinian  by  birth,  and  a  Floridian  by 
adoption,  and  as  gloriously  big-hearted,  digni 
fied,  and  elegant  as  South  Carolinians  always 
are.  To  be  sure,"  she  added,  <(all  Southern 
men  are  generous,  but  a  South  Carolina  or  Vir 
ginia  gentleman  has  just  a  little  something  in 
mannerism  which  I  miss  in  men  from  other 
States.  For  where  in  the  United  States  could 
you  find  another  so  princely  and  courteous  in 
bearing  as  General  M.  C.  Butler  of  South  Caro 
lina,  or  Generals  Fitzhugh  and  Custis  Lee  of 
Virginia.  Very  princes  among  men  are  these; 
gentlemen  of  the  old  regime,  which  are  born, 
and  not  bred  so.  They  make  one  long  for  the 
old  South  and  that  which  in  the  rush  and 


The  Two  Hat  Pins. 

hurry  of  to-day  is  fast  becoming  extinct;  that 
rare  elegance,  grace,  and  magnificence  of  bear 
ing  which  stamp  a  man's  superiority  before  he 
speaks. " 

(<  So  far  as  that  goes,"  answered  Bernice, 
(<  Kentucky  men  are  good  enough  for  me.  Even 
you  must  concede  the  fact,  Mary,  that  our 
men  (leaving  the  women  out  of  the  question) 
are  the  handsomest  in  America;  and  I  love 
them  for  being  unable  to  refuse  a  woman 
anything,  even  if  they  never  intend  giving  it 
to  her. "  The  two  girls  laughed  merrily. 

"This  is  pretty, "  exclaimed  Mary,  handing 
her  friend  the  jeweled  pin. 

<(  Yes,  beautiful, "  she  replied,  (<  but  any  one 
can  have  such  a  pin  who  has  the  money  to 
buy  it.  I  am  sure  you  prize  the  Confederate 
pin  most." 

(C  I  would,  save  for  the  fact  that  Clivc  gave 
me  this,"  she  replied,  tenderly  replacing  the 
jeweled  pin.  <(  I  always  prize  most  what  Clive 
gives  me,  and  he  gives  more  beautiful  things  to 
me  than  I  desire  him  to  do,  because  you  know, 
Bernice,  we  are  not  to  be  rich.  Ours  will  be 
but  a  modest  little  home." 

152 


The  Two  Hat  Pins. 

(<  Yes,  Mary,  you  are  a  mystery  to  me," 
rattled  Bernice.  (<  The  idea  of  discarding  Tom 
Nash,  with  his  princely  fortune,  for  a  poor  young 
fellow  like  Clive,  struggling  for  a  livelihood. " 

<(  But  I  love  Clive, "  answered  Mary  simply, 
<(and,  like  the  Confederate  button,  money  can 
not  buy  that." 

((And  such  a  changed  girl  as  you  are,  too," 
went  on  her  friend.  (( Why  I  told  Robert 
Staunton  (whom  you  had  never  met)  that  you 
were  the  biggest  flirt  in  Kentucky,  and  he  told 
me  afterwards  that  for  an  hour  he  thought  your 
absent-mindedness  but  assumed  coquettishness, 
until  he  discovered  you  were  so  much  in  love 
with  some  one  that  you  could  not  even  show 
a  passing  interest  in  another;  and  that  he  had, 
in  consequence,  a  poor  opinion  of  my  judgment 
of  a  flirt.  But  you  were  the  biggest  flirt  in 
Kentucky  before  you  met  Clive,  you  know  you 
were,  Mary." 

<(Yes,  and  all  my  past  life  seems  so  empty. 
Everything  seems  to  me  to  date  back  to  the 
hour  I  first  met  and  loved  Clive.  Our  home, 
though  ever  so  humble,  shall  be  a  paradise,  be 
cause  perfect  love  for  each  other  and  God 

153 


The  Two  Hat  Pins. 

reigns  in  our  hearts.  Oh!  Bernice,  I  do  so 
wish  every  girl  I  meet  could  be  as  royally 
happy  as  I  am.* 

"Mary,  you  are  a  dear  little  goose, *  answered 
Bernice.*  (<And  I  reckon  you  are  right  in 
painting  a  halo  about  your  Clive's  head,  for  I 
have  never  seen  a  woman  change  as  his  love 
has  changed  you.  Why,  the  Mary  I  knew, 
would  have  flirted  with  Bob  Staunton  until  she 
would  have  blinded  him  to  every  other  girl  in 
our  set,  until  she  saw  fit  to  discard  him.* 

(<  You  should  be  pleased  then,  Bernice,  with 
the  change,*  smiled  Mary,  <(for  I  notice  that 
Mr.  Staunton  is  not  too  blind  to  admire  you 
prodigiously.  * 

"Where  shall  you  live  when  you  are  married?* 
asked  Bernice. 

(( In  Richmond,  Virginia,  the  beautiful,  dreamy 
old  Confederate  Capital,*  answered  Mary,  (<and 
you  shall  visit  me,  Bernice,  and  I  know  some 
charming  soldiers  there,  who  will  give  you  a 
whole  uniform  of  buttons,  if  you  will  accept 
themselves  as  well,  for  they  asked  me  to  find 
them  a  Kentucky  sweetheart.* 

(<  Bravo,  *  laughed  Bernice.  <(  They  will  find 
154 


The  Two  Hat  Pins. 

the  Kentucky  girls  not  behind  Virginia  girls  in 
( discarding '  them,  too,  when  tired  of  them.-0 
The  two  girls  laughed,  and  arm  in  arm  saun 
tered  from  the  room. 

The  hat  pins  gazed  at  each  other.  The 
jeweled  pin  broke  the  silence. 

<(  I  am  sorry  I  was  so  hasty  in  my  opinion  of 
you,w  she  exclaimed.  <(  I  see  you  are  in  better 
repute  than  I  dreamed  one  in  so  cheap  a  garb 
could  be,  and  I  am  glad  to  know  it,  as  we  are 
so  intimately  associated. w 

(<  I  trust, w  answered  the  Confederate  button, 
that  the  conversation  of  the  two  girls  may  have 
impressed  you  with  the  fact  that  there  are  some 
things  which  money  cannot  buy;  and  that  there 
is  a  truth,  grand  beyond  conception,  in  the 
teachings  of  Paul,  wherein  he  says:  — 

(C  In  lowliness  of  mind,  let  each  esteem  others 
better  than  themselves. w 


155 


A  CHAPTER  FROM  A  BOY'S  LIFE 


fHE  hero  of  this  simple  tale  is  not  a  lad  too 
tender  for  any  boyish  sport.  It  is  only  in 
his  heart-life  and  beauty  of  soul  that  he  stands 
alone.  Like  a  lovely  bud,  growing  daily  more 
beauteous  as  it  attains  perfect  fruition,  so  the 
baby,  as  it  developed  into  boyhood,  and  the  boy 
as  he  is  developing  into  manhood,  grows  more 
exquisite,  in  complete  oneness  with  God.  He 
was  a  queer,  original  baby,  whom  his  mother 
said  came  into  her  life  because  she  had  <(  asked 
God  for  him,"  and  whom  she  said  she  named 
and  dedicated  to  God  before  his  birth.  A  baby 
with  features  as  beautifully  molded  as  a  girl's, 
and  coloring  as  exquisite  as  the  petal  of  a  rose. 
The  child's  worship  for  his  mother,  and  hers 
for  him,  was  something  the  angels  must  have 
smiled  upon.  Very  often  he  would  sit  at  her 
feet,  and  give  voice  to  whatever  was  in  her 

157 


A  Chapter  from  a  Boy's  Life. 

mind,  so  exactly  seemed  their  natures  in  accord 
with  each  other.  The  child  seemed  a  living 
demonstration  of  the  broad,  beautiful  philosophy 
of  Emerson,  which  his  mother  loved  so  well. 
His  little  soul  overflowed  with  beauty,  truth, 
and  holiness,  of  which  he  was  a  revelation  in 
the  highest  degree,  yet  withal,  full  of  the 
pranks  of  childhood.  One  summer  morning,  his 
curls  tossed  in  golden  fleece  about  his  shoulders, 
his  dainty  white  gown  bespattered  with  mud, 
the  little  fellow  laboriously,  and  with  sturdy, 
determined  little  fists,  threw  up  shovelful  after 
shovelful  of  mud.  A  man  in  passing  by  paused 
to  look  at  the  pretty  picture,  and  called  out: 
(<  What  you  trying  to  do,  boy !  dig  a  well  ? w 
The  child  paused,  and  with  serious  gravity  re 
plied:  (<  No — I'm  digging  for  the  devil."  <(  For 
the  what  ? M  said  the  man;  <(for  the  devil,0  an 
swered  the  child.  The  man  laughed  until  he 
wiped  the  tears  from  his  cheeks,  and  replied: 
(( Why,  you'd  run  like  a  good  fellow  if  you  found 
him,  boy !  They  say  he  has  horns ! >}  (<7  wouldn't 
be  scared, w  answered  the  baby  contemptuously, 
<(  /  am  God's  child,  and  nothing  can  hurt  me. 
Mamma  says  there  is  no  devil,  only  the  naughty 

158 


A  Chapter  from  a  Boy's  Life. 

in  people's  hearts.  Tom  Jones  says  ( there  just 
is,'  and  that  he  ( lives  under  the  ground/  but 
I've  digged  three  days  and  he  hasn't  come 
up  yet. "  (<  You  better  give  him  up  as  a  bad 
job,"  answered  the  man.  A  gorgeously  hued 
butterfly  flitted  by,  and  dropping  his  shovel  the 
child  was  off  like  a  flash  to  give  it  chase.  It 
was  the  habit  of  this  baby  to  daily  bedeck  his 
mother's  writing  desk  with  violets  and  roses, 
which  it  was  his  great  pleasure  to  gather  for 
her.  "They  are  God's  pretty  little  thoughts," 
said  the  child,  ((and  as  you  write  and  look  at 
them,  mamma,  you'll  think  of  God  and  me." 

One  day  he  met  a  baby  at  his  gate,  a  baby 
as  dirty  and  forlorn  as  he  was  spotless  and 
beautiful.  (<  Why  do  you  not  wash  ?  "  said  the 
child.  ((  God  must  feel  sorry  to  see  you  so  dirty. 
The  little  birds  wash,  and  God  washes  all  the 
trees  and  flowers  with  rain  and  dew.  When  I 
get  big,  I'll  give  soap,  and  brooms,  and  vase 
line  to  everyone  like  you.  You  could  put  the 
vaseline  on  your  face  to  make  it  well.  Here 
—  take  this  rose,  and  when  you  see  how  sweet 
and  clean  it  is,  you,  too,  will  wash."  Later  — 
when  the  baby  was  a  baby  no  longer,  but  wore 

159 


A  Chapter  from  a  Boy's  Life. 

trousers  and  jackets,  a  playmate  remarked  to 
him:  (( How  could  you  keep  from  hitting  Tom 
Brown  when  he  tore  your  kite  up  ? w  The  boy 
plucked  a  rose  from  the  bush  and  threw  it  to 
the  ground.  "See  how  still  the  bush  is,})  he 
replied;  ((it  just  blooms  on  —  as  sweet  as  ever 
—  and  the  sun  shines  —  and  everything  in  na 
ture  is  always  so  still  —  and  grand,  no  matter 
how  agitated  people  are,  that  it  always  seems 
to  me  —  a  great  teacher — that  speaks  to  us  from 
God  —  to  be  always  calm  —  and  still  —  and  smil 
ing;  and  then  when  I  am  angry,  I  try  to  be 
still  and  say  to  myself — I  am  God's  child  — 
His  life  —  and  love  —  are  within  me  —  I  must 
not  mar  His  temple  with  anger.  I  believe  Tom 
Brown  will  be  hurt  by  that  act,  because  no 
one  can  do  another  an  unkindness  without 
hurting  himself. w  (( Where  do  you  learn  to 
think  so  many  things  ? w  asked  the  little  friend. 
(( I  will  tell  you,"  answered  the  boy.  <(  Mamma 
and  myself  ( wait  before  the  Lord  >  every  day. M 
<(  Do  you  mean  pray  ?w  asked  the  other.  "No," 
was  the  reply.  (( Of  course  I  pray,  but  not 
when  I  wait.  We  wait  silently  before  God  — 
while  He  flows  into  us  His  spirit,  peace,  and  all 

160 


A  Chapter  from  a  Boy's  Life. 

health  and  joy.  Our  souls  and  our  bodies  re 
ceive  the  quiet,  certain  blessing.  Why,  I  never 
go  away  from  home  that  I  do  not  wish  for  my 
dear  little  pine  pillow  I  brought  from  Pass 
Christian,  Mississippi,  and  which  has  such  sweet 
associations,  because  I  have  put  my  head  upon 
it  and  ( waited )  so  many  times  before  God  for 
His  blessing. w  <(What  do  you  hear  when  you 
wait  ?  w  asked  the  child.  <(  Nothing, w  answered 
the  boy;  (<  I  only  realize  God's  presence  —  and 
practice  His  presence  just  as  mamma  practices 
on  the  piano. M  <(  That's  queer, M  said  the  child. 
(<  I  never  heard  of  such  things.*  (<  Yes  —  it  is 
queer, w  was  the  reply,  (<but,  oh,  it  just  helps 
you  every  way.  I  would  sooner  go  without 
dinner  than  without  the  waiting.  It  keeps  all 
harm  and  trouble  from  you,  even  sickness;  but 
if  pain  does  come  —  it  is  only  God's  lesson  to 
us  to  teach  us  patience  and  draw  us  closer 
to  Him.  We  cannot  get  so  near  God  in  any 
other  way,  as  we  can  in  this  waiting  in  silence 
before  Him.  You  know  one  of  the  promises 
is — ( He  that  dwelleth  in  the  secret  place  of 
the  Most  High  shall  abide  under  the  shadow 
of  the  Almighty.  >  M 

II  161 


A  Chapter  from  a  Boy's  Life. 

One  evening  the  boy  sat  beside  his  mother, 
literally  drinking  in  the  melody  of  one  of  Bee 
thoven's  sonatas;  suddenly  he  interrupted  her. 
(<  Mamma, w  he  said,  (( I  feel  as  though  I  could 
follow  that  melody  if  I  had  a  flute. »  The 
mother  arose  from  the  piano,  and  taking  up  a 
much-read  copy  of  Emerson,  pulled  the  boy 
onto  her  lap  and  read:  <(  The  common  experi 
ence  of  man  is,  that  he  fits  himself  as  well  as 
he  can  to  the  customary  details  of  that  work  or 
trade  he  falls  into,  and  tends  it,  as  a  dog  turns 
a  spit.  Then  is  he  a  part  of  the  machine  he 
moves  —  the  man  is  lost."  Turning  to  another 
page  —  much  read  and  underlined  —  she  read 
again:  (C  Each  man  has  his  own  vocation.  The 
talent  is  the  call.  There  is  one  direction  in 
which  all  space  is  open  to  him.  He  has  fac 
ulties  silently  inviting  him  thither  to  endless 
exertion.  He  is  like  a  ship  in  a  river;  he  runs 
against  obstruction  on  every  side  but  one;  on 
that  side  all  obstruction  is  taken  away  and  he 
sweeps  serenely  over  God's  depths  into  infinite 
sea.w  (<  It  had  been  my  desire,  son,w  said  the 
mother,  <(  that  you  make  law  your  profession ; 
but  if  any  talent  calls  you  in  another  direction, 

162 


"  i  FEEL  AS  IF  i  COULD  FOLLOW  THAT  MS.I.ODY,  IF  I  HAD  A  FLUTE- 


A  Chapter  from  a  Boy's  Life. 

follow  zV,  dear,  as  God's  call.*  A  few  days  later, 
the  boy  was  the  proud  possessor  of  a  beautiful 
flute.  True  to  his  conviction,  without  instruc 
tion,  clear  and  sweet  were  the  tones  he  pro 
duced,  as  in  perfect  harmony  he  followed  each 
selection  upon  the  piano.  For  a  year,  now,  he 
has  studied  under  Theodore  Hahn,  Cincinnati's 
finest  flutist;  and  as  a  beautiful  statue  grows 
under  the  hands  of  a  sculptor,  so  the  boy's  tal 
ent  assumes  the  proportion  of  genius  under  the 
instruction  of  the  artist.  This  is  but  a  chapter 
from  a  boy's  life.  It  is  a  life  so  pure,  so  beau 
tiful,  that,  like  a  ray  of  sunshine,  it  sheds  light 
upon  all  about  it.  And  in  the  language  of 
Emerson :  <(  When  we  see  a  soul,  whose  acts  are 
all  regal,  graceful  and  pleasant  as  roses,  we 
must  thank  God  that  such  things  can  be  and 
are. w 


HOW   THE 

CAPTAIN  FOUND   HIS   SERVANT 

(A  Tale  from  Southern  Life) 
«  «  « 

w  WAS  seated  in  that  snug  little  recess  on  the 

6Jlk> 

Ip  second  floor  of  the  Atlantic  Hotel  at  Nor 
folk,  Va.  (a  spot  much  sought  by  its  guests  be 
cause  of  the  beautiful  marine  view  it  affords), 
chatting  with  Captain  W — ,  one  of  Norfolk's 
oldest  and  best-known  citizens,  who  resides  in 
the  same  mansion  occupied  by  his  family  for 
five  generations. 

The  Captain  possessed,  in  a  marked  degree, 
that  distinguished  bearing  peculiar  to  the  South 
ern  soldier,  and  which  upon  this  occasion  was 
accentuated  by  his  uniform  of  Confederate  gray. 
He  apologized  for  wearing  it  to  call  upon  me, 
stating  that  he  had  just  been  attending  the 
funeral  of  a  comrade,  and  that  the  entire  camp 

165 


How  the  Captain 

wore  their  uniforms.  I  assured  him  his  appear 
ance  needed  no  apology;  that  to  me  the  garb 
of  Confederacy  was  more  royal  than  the  robe 
of  a  king. 

The  Captain  chatted  of  Norfolk,  of  its  won 
derful  commercial  interest,  and  of  its  advan 
tages  over  other  Virginia  cities,  being  a  seaport 
town.  I  fully  coincided  with  him  that  no  city 
in  the  South  was  more  progressive  than  Nor 
folk.  At  this  juncture  of  our  conversation  a 
pianette  in  the  street  below  began  loudly  play 
ing  «A11  Coons  Look  Alike  to  Me." 

(<  I  declare, w  said  the  Captain.  (<  In  the  lan 
guage  of  Polk  Miller,  (all  coons  may  look  alike 
to  some,  but  they  don't  to  me.1*  I'll  say  this, 
however,  the  shiftless,  unreliable  negroes  of  the 
present  age  are  astonishingly  alike,  and  alto 
gether  different  from  the  servants  of  the  old 
South,  who  partook  to  a  certain  extent  of  the 
individuality  of  their  owners,  and  who  are  fast 
becoming  a  feature  of  the  past. w 

<(  Is  it  true,  Captain, w  I  asked,  <(  that  after 
more  than  a  quarter  of  a  century  you  found 
your  old  body  servant  whom  you  supposed  to 
have  been  killed  at  Sharpsburg  ? w 

1 66 


Found  his  Servant. 

<(  True  as  Gospel,  and  stranger  than  any  fic 
tion,  M  he  replied. 

w  I  never  learned  the  particulars,  I  should 
love  to  hear  the  story, w  I  suggested. 

(<  It  came  about  in  this  way, w  replied  the 
Captain,  drawing  his  chair  nearer  mine  and  set 
tling  himself  into  a  more  comfortable  position. 

<(  I  was  visiting  a  western  town  on  business, 
and  while  there  was  the  guest  of  General  H — , 
who  was  a  very  gallant  soldier  in  the  Union 
army,  and,  as  the  wont  of  soldiers,  we  fell  to 
discussing  war  times.  (I  tell  you,*  said  the 
General,  (  we  have  an  old  darkey  here  for  whom 
I  always  feel  a  deep  pity.  It  seems  he  was  the 
body  servant  of  some  Confederate  soldier  who 
was  killed  at  Antietam,  and  to  whom  he  had 
been  so  attached  that  the  master's  death  com 
pletely  unbalanced  his  mind.  He  was  taken 
prisoner  and  brought  North,  and  could  never 
tell  anything  save  that  he  (<  lived  in  ole  Vir- 
ginny,w  and  <c  b'long'd  to  Marse  Capt.  and  now 
Marse  Capt.  dade  he  doan  b'long  no  place. w  * 

<(  *•  Is  he  a  Virginia  negro  ? )  I  asked.  (  From 
this  and  certain  Virginia  provincialisms,  I  take 
it  he  is,*  answered  the  General. 

167 


How  the  Captain 

<(  ( If  he  is  a  Virginia  negro  I  must  look  him 
up,*  I  replied.  The  General  rang  for  his  porter 
and  dispatched  him  in  quest  of  the  old  darkey, 
whom  an  hour  later  he  ushered  into  our  pres 
ence.  A  typical  old  Virginia  darkey  I  found 
him,  save  for  the  ( unbalanced  condition y  of 
which  the  General  had  spoken. 

<(  When  I  made  known  to  him  that  I  was  from 
Virginia,  his  dazed  brain  seemed  momentarily 
to  brighten,  and  he  asked,  (  Does  you  all  know 
my  Marse  Capt.,  what  killed  at  Sharpsburg  ?  > 
Being  unable  to  place  him,  the  old  slave  re 
lapsed  into  his  semi-conscious  state. 

(<  ( I  tell  you,  *  said  the  General,  ( get  him  off 
on  some  of  his  tales  about  Marse  Captain,  when 
they  were  boys,  and  he  seems  sane  enough. 
He  seems  alive  only  to  the  past.  Life  seems 
to  have  stopped  for  him  with  the  death  of  his 
master.' 

{<  ( What  do  you  remember  best  about  Vir 
ginia  ? >  I  asked.  The  old  darkey's  face  bright 
ened. 

(<  ( I  reckon  I  members  bes'  when  Marse  Capt. 
an'  we  all's  boys;  an'  ole  Marse  done  come 
mammy's  cabin  one  mawnin,  an'  he  put  he  han' 

168 


Found  his  Servant. 

on  my  haid,  an'  he  say:  ((  You  all  come  'th  me, 
boy.  I  done  gwine  kayh  you  all  to  big  house. 
You  gwine  hab  new  Marse. w  An'  sho'  'nuff,  ole 
Marse  done  kayh  me  big  house,  an'  de  fiddles 
was  a  scrapin',  an'  de  table  done  full  ob  de  mos' 
scrumtifyinest  eatens.  Um  —  uh!  an'  a  big  cake 
sot  in  de  middle  ob  de  table,  wif  ten  candles 
burning  on  't.  An'  ole  Marse  done  call  little 
Marse  up,  an'  he  say:  "I  done  bring  you  all 
Jim  fo'  you  birfday  gift.  This  Jim's  birfday, 
too.  You  all  bof  ten  years  old  to-day,  an'  I 
gwine  mek  you  present  ob  Jim  fo'  yo'  Sarvent 
to  wait  on  you,  an'  tek  care  on  you.  But  mine, 
you  has  to  be  kine  to  Jim;  an'  you,  Jim,  you 
mus'  'bey  yo'  new  Marse.  You  done  b'long  to 
him  now.  You  doan  b'long  me  no  mo'."  Gord! 
but  dat  boy  pow'ful  tickled.  He  say  he  reckon 
I  finest  present  he  ever  got  sho'  'nuff.  After 
we  all's  dinner,  he  kayh  me  to  woods,  toten'  he 
gun,  jes'  as  proud  an'  big  as  ole  Marse  hesef. 
Lawd!  ole  Marse  was  de  proudest  lookin'  man 
in  all  Virginny;  an'  little  Marse  de  zactinest 
picter  ob  he.  I  was  pow'ful  proud  dat  day,  too, 
toten'  my  new  Marse's  gun;  an'  mammy  an' 
Mistis,  mos'  as  satisfractious  as  we  all,  stan'in* 

169 


How  the  Captain 

in  de  gyardin  smilin',  an'  watchin'  little  Marse 
walkin'  off  so  proud-like,  with  me  an'  de  dawgs 
foll'in'  he,  jes'  fo'  all  the  wuld  like  ole  Marse 
hesef.  Gord!  reckon  I  nevah  fergits  when  some 
po'  white  trashes  boys  got  me  an'  Marse  into 
disgracefulness.  Um  —  uh!  mebbe  ole  Marse 
didn'  wear  we  all  out;  an'  Mistis  'mos'  done 
stracted  an'  tuk  to  de  baid  fo'  week.  Little 
Marse  took  we  all's  thrashin'  pow'ful  to  heart, 
but  mammy  tuk  we  all  in  de  pantry  an'  done 
pacify  our  feelins  wid  cake  and  mince-pie. 
Um  —  uh!  Reckon  I  take  thrashin'  now  to  get 
some  mammy's  ole  Virginny  cookins.  •* 

"The  old  darkey  paused,  and  I  felt  myself 
tremble  as  I  seized  the  General's  arm. 

<(  (  This  is  my  old  family  slave,  General,  I  have 
not  the  shadow  of  a  doubt, )  I  exclaimed. 
(  What !  can  it  be  possible  ?  *  asked  the  General. 

<(  (  What  occasioned  the  disgrace,  boy  ? )  I  asked. 
But  the  old  darkey's  mind  had  wandered  again. 
He  shook  his  head  and  muttered :  (  Marse  Capt. 
dade  at  Sharpsburg.  I  is  kayh'd  way,  nebbah 
see  ole  Virginny  no  moV  He  subsided  into 
silence  again.  I  touched  his  arm,  ( You  were 
both  whipped  for  having  your  arms  tattooed.' 

170 


Found  his  Servant. 

A  gleam  ot  conscious  remembrance  flitted  across 
his  countenance,  and  rolling  up  his  ragged 
sleeve,  he  bared  a  dusky  arm,  revealing  his 
name  and  date  of  tattoo.  I  seized  the  old  dar 
key  in  my  arms,  and  sobbed  aloud;  baring  my 
own  arm,  I  showed  a  similar  date,  and  my  own 
name. 

<(  (  Look  at  me,  Jim,*  I  cried,  leading  him  under 
the  full  light  of  the  chandelier,  (  Who  am  I  ?  * 

<(<Good  Gord  A'mighty,*  he  exclaimed;  (it's 
ole  Marse  hesef.  * 

(( I  pointed  to  his  own  reflection  in  an  opposite 
mirror,  (  Come,  boy,*  I  exclaimed,  (you  must 
understand,  do  you  not  see  how  white  your  own 
hair  has  grown  f  We  were  children  together. 
I  am  your  young  master.  When  the  Yankees 
captured  you  and  took  you  from  my  side  where 
I  lay  prostrate  and  bleeding  on  the  field  of 
Sharpsburg,  I  was  not  dead,  as  you  supposed, 
but  only  wounded.  Poor  fellow,  the  shock  has 
turned  your  faithful  brain.  Come,  Jim,  we  are 
going  to  dear  old  Virginia  again. '  The  old  fel 
low  clung  to  me  with  the  helplessness  of  a  child. 

<(  (  Gord  A 'mighty,  Marse ! '  he  sobbed,  ( I  is 
pow'ful  glad  to  see  you  all  again,  but  you  alls 

171 


How  the  Captain  Found  his  Servant. 

po"  mine  mus'  be  done  'stracted,  tryin'  mek  me 
bleev  you  all  Marse  Capt.  Gord!  Marse,  I  pow- 
ful  glad  to  see  we  alls  family  once  mo'.* 

<(  When  we  returned  to  Norfolk,  and  I  carried 
the  old  fellow  to  visit  the  grave  of  my  father, 
he  insisted  it  was  ( Young  Marse's  grave,  >  and 
until  the  day  of  his  death,  two  years  subsequent, 
the  faithful  old  servant  spent  most  of  his  time 
beside  the  grave  at  the  foot  of  which  he  now 
sleeps. w 

<(  There  is  no  fiction  equal  to  reality, w  I  ex 
claimed,  as  the  captain  closed  his  story.  "None," 
he  replied,  (<  and  as  I  witness  the  new  ways  of 
a  new  South,  and  realize  that  I  stand  alone 
among  the  few  who  belong  to  the  old  ante  bellum 
days  which  are  gone  forever,  it  helps  soothe  my 
grief  when  the  coffin-lid  closes  upon  the  face 
of  my  comrades,  for  it  means  a  reuniting  with 
them  in  another  world. w 

As  he  arose  to  go,  extending  a  hand  in  cor 
dial  good-bye,  while  in  the  other  he  held  the 
broad-brimmed  hat  of  Confederate  gray,  I  looked 
at  the  splendid  courtly  gentleman  of  the  old 
regime,  and  sighed  —  that  all  too  fast  they  are 
passing  away. 

172 


THE   BRIDAL  CHAMBER 

OF   FLORIDA'S  SILVER  SPRINGS 
«  «  « 

?EAR  Florida's  celebrated  Silver  Springs  lives 
an  old  negress,  known  to  the  entire  sur 
rounding  community  as  <(Aunt  Silly, w  and  whose 
claim  to  being  one  hundred  and  ten  years  old 
is  borne  out  by  her  appearance.  Aunt  Silly  is 
wrinkled  and  decrepit,  and  the  wool  peeping 
from  her  bandannaed  head  is  white  as  snow, 
while  the  blackness  and  weirdness  of  her  face 
is  intensified  by  a  heavy  crop  of  snow-white 
beard.  As  long  as  the  oldest  citizens  of  Ocala 
and  surrounding  vicinity  can  remember,  Aunt 
Silly  has  looked  just  as  ancient  as  she  does 
now;  identified  always  with  Silver  Springs,  and 
hobbling  about  them  from  morning  until  night, 
leaning  upon  her  short  thick  staff.  That 
she  was  participant  in  a  tragedy,  is  known 
only  to  a  very  few  of  Ocala's  oldest  citizens, 

173 


The  Bridal  Chamber. 

and  seldom  referred  to  by  any  of  them.  In 
the  near  vicinity  of  Ocala,  when  first  it  was 
settled,  stood  a  splendid  old  mansion,  owned  by 
Captain  Harding  Douglass,  a  South  Carolinian 
of  considerable  wealth.  His  only  child  was  a 
son,  who  with  his  mother's  beauty  of  counte 
nance,  had  inherited  her  tender,  shrinking  na 
ture,  and,  like  herself,  was  a  slave  to  the  old 
man's  iron  will.  In  the  beautiful  little  city  of 
Ocala  lived  Bernice  Mayo,  whose  blonde  beauty 
won,  at  first  sight,  the  heart  of  Claire  Douglass. 
Although  of  Virginia  ancestry,  Bernice  was  a 
true  child  of  the  (<  Land  of  Flowers, M  passion 
ate  and  impulsive.  Her  eyes  were  blue  and 
clear  as  the  waters  of  Lake  Munroe,  beside 
which  she  had  spent  her  childhood  in  the  fair 
little  city  of  Sanford.  Her  hair  was  as  golden 
as  Florida's  own  sunshine,  and  Florida's  tropi 
cal  splendor  ran  riot  in  her  blood.  For  six 
months,  Bernice  Mayo  and  Claire  Douglass 
were  constant  companions,  and  Silver  Springs 
was  their  favorite  resort.  For  half  a  day  at  a 
time  they  would  drift  about  on  the  bosom  of 
the  splendid,  placid  curiosity  of  nature. 

Bernice  seemed  never  to  tire  of  gazing  into 
174 


The  Bridal  Chamber. 

the  depths  of  this  subterranean  world.  (( If  I 
were  a  mermaid,  Claire, M  she  would  say,  (<and 
lived  in  yon  crystal  cavern,  and  some  fair  day 
I  should  wander  forth  among  the  palmettos  and 
mosses  of  the  Springs,  and,  sitting  on  yonder 
ledge  of  rock,  should  ( comb  my  golden  hair 
with  a  shell, }  and  your  boat  should  come  drift 
ing  by,  and  you  see  me  in  the  water  beneath, 
would  you  love  me  well  enough  to  plunge  — 
plunge  to  the  depths  beneath  to  woo  me  ? }) 
Then  would  Claire  stop  her  merry  chatter  with 
his  kisses,  and  pledge  to  her  his  eternal  love, 
as  they  drifted  over  the  transparent  mirror  of 
water,  pausing  now  and  then  to  study  the  rocks 
and  shells,  the  mosses,  palmettos,  and  fish, 
which  were  as  visible  eighty  feet  beneath  the 
transparent  water  as  were  the  trees  and  wood 
land  about  them.  There  is  nothing  fairer  than 
Ocala's  (<  Lovers'  Lane, w  and  yet  no  spot  held 
for  these  young  people  the  attraction  of  Silver 
Springs- — -their  constant  trysting  spot.  But 
there  came  a  fatal  day  —  destined  to  separate 
them.  A  day  wherein  Claire  Douglass  declared 
to  his  father  his  love  for  beautiful,  penniless 
Bernice  Mayo,  and  his  determination  to  make 


The  Bridal  Chamber. 

her  his  wife.  Stormily  his  father  vowed  it 
should  never  be,  and  secretly  planned  a  separa 
tion.  When  Claire  Douglass  had  been  speedily 
dispatched  abroad  on  important  business  for  his 
father,  then  it  was  that  Bernice  learned  the 
truth,  and  her  proud,  delicate  nature  lay 
crushed  and  bleeding-  beneath  the  cruel  blow 
and  still  more  cruel  separation.  Vainly  she 
strove  to  rally;  all  life  seemed  but  an  empty 
blank  to  her. 

A  year  dragged  wearily  by,  and  the  scenes 
frequented  by  merry  Bernice  Mayo  knew  her 
no  more.  Paler  and  thinner  she  daily  grew. 
Fragile  she  was  as  the  white  blossoms  of  her 
well-loved  Springs.  The  little  chain  of  gold 
Claire  had  locked  upon  her  arm  would  have 
slipped  across  the  wasted,  transparent  hand  but 
for  the  ribbon  which  held  its  links.  One  day 
(her  last  upon  earth)  the  girl  by  dint  of  des 
perate  energy  crept  to  the  station  and  boarded 
the  train  for  Silver  Springs.  Even  old  Aunt 
Silly  was  unprepared  for  the  white,  emaciated 
little  creature  who  tottered  into  her  cabin 
door  and  fell  fainting  in  her  arms.  Conscious 
ness  soon  returned;  but  it  was  apparent  even  to 

176 


The  Bridal  Chamber. 

the  old  black  woman  that  death  had  set  his 
gray,  unmistakable  seal  upon  the  young  face. 
<(Aunt  Silly, M  gasped  the  girl,  (<  I  have  come  to 
you  to  die,  and  you  must  obey  my  last  request; 
the  grave  divulges  no  secrets.  Ere  to-night's 
sun  sets,  I  shall  be  in  heaven.  This  separation 
from  the  man  I  love  has  been  my  death  —  but 
in  tJiat  deatli  —  we  shall  be  reunited.  I  have 
asked  God  —  and  he  has  heard  me.  But  you  — 
Aunt  Silly  —  you  must  obey  my  request.  You 
loved  me  —  you  will  do  as  I  ask  you.  To-night 
—  when  the  moon  comes  out  —  row  my  body  to 
Boiling  Spring,  and  bury  me  there.  You  know 
the  spot  —  make  no  mistake.  Do  this,  and  God 
will  attend  to  the  rest."  <(  Good  Gord  A'mighty, 
chile,  you  think  Aunt  Silly  am  gwine  tote  dade 
body  off  in  de  lonesomely  night  ? w  asked  the  old 
woman,  her  very  teeth  chattering  with  the  super 
stitious  fear  peculiar  to  her  race.  The  girl 
realized  the  risk  of  her  plan  being  thwarted, 
and  raising  herself  to  a  sitting  posture,  she 
seized  the  old  woman's  hands  and  fixed  her  dy 
ing  eyes  full  upon  her  face. 

<fAunt    Silly, w    she    gasped,   <(  I    am    a    dying 
woman  —  I  am  very  near  to  God  —  I  have  talked 
12  177 


The  Bridal  Chamber. 

with  Him  —  and  He  has  answered  me.  My  will 
has  been  crushed  in  life  —  I  swear  it  shall  not 
be  in  death.  Before  twenty-four  hours  Claire 
Douglass  shall  join  me  in  the  crystal  cavern  of 
Silver  Springs.  If  you  do  not  grant  my  request 
every  spirit  of  evil  shall  surround  you.  Palsied 
and  blind  you  shall  grow  —  and  deaf;  deaf  to 
every  sound  but  the  ghosts  of  the  dead,  which 
shall  pursue  you  by  day  and  haunt  you  by 
night.  Do  you  swear  to  obey  my  dying  re 
quest —  or  will  you  refuse  me  —  and  reap  the 
prophecy  of  a  dying  woman,  which  shall  rest 
upon  your  cowardly  head  —  for  refusing  to  obey 
God's  will.*  The  old  woman  was  shaking  like 
an  aspen.  Her  eyes  protruded  with  fear,  and 
great  beads  of  perspiration  rolled  down  her 
cheeks.  The  strength  of  the  dying  girl's  will 
had  prevailed,  and  the  old  woman  answered: 
(<  I  promises,  honey, —  I  promises.*  It  was  a 
solemn  and  awful  sight  that  night,  witnessed 
alone  by  God  and  nature,  the  boat  —  which 
drifted  down  Silver  Springs  in  the  moonlight, 
bearing  its  two  strange  occupants.  The  one  — 
weird,  bent  and  grotesque;  the  other — so  silent, 
so  white,  so  pathetic,  in  its  dead  loveliness. 

178 


The  Bridal  Chamber. 

Not  a  leaf  was  stirring  —  not  a  sound  heard  — 
but  the  plash  —  plash  of  the  old  woman's  oars, 
as  her  boat,  with  its  strange,  beautiful  burden, 
drifted  down  the  curious,  transparent  body  of 
water.  Drifted  until  it  reached  Boiling  Spring, 
then  veered  about,  and  stood  still.  Gently, 
and  easily  as  if  it  had  been  a  babe,  the  old 
woman  lifted  the  little  body.  Something  of 
her  fear  had  departed  —  in  the  placid  smile  of 
the  sweet,  dead  face.  Tears  rolled  down  her 
dusky  cheeks,  as  she  bent  forward  in  obedience 
to  the  girl's  curious  request.  For  a  moment 
the  body  rocked  to  and  foe  on  the  bosom  of 
the  water  upon  which  its  happiest  moments  had 
been  spent.  The  dead  face  smiled,  and  the 
wealth  of  hair  gleamed  in  the  moonlight  like  a 
sheen  of  gold.  Every  pebble  was  visible  in  the 
depth  below.  Suddenly,  as  if  by  magic,  the 
body  began  sinking.  The  boiling  of  the  spring 
had  ceased,  showing  the  peculiar  little  fissure 
in  the  rock  from  whence  all  the  strange  body 
of  water  came.  The  fissure  slowly  divided, 
received  the  dead  body  and  closed  again,  shut 
ting  every  vestige  of  it  from  view.  (<  Gord 
A 'mighty!  Dat  chile  a  angel  sho  nuff.  She 


The  Bridal  Chamber. 

mus  done  talked  de  Lawd  sho',  to  knowed 
how  all  dat  gwine  be,w  muttered  the  old  woman, 
as  she  rowed  back  to  her  cabin  in  the  moon 
light.  A  mocking  bird  on  the  opposite  shore 
sent  forth  a  flood  of  silver  melody.  <(  Hear  dat 
now,8  muttered  Aunt  Silly,  <(dat  bird  done 
sendin'  foth  he  weddin'  song  fo'  de  bridegroom. 
Come  on  Claire  Douglass  —  yo'  little  bride  am 
waitin'  for  you  more  pacifyin  den  she  waited 
many  long  day.8 

The  day  following  the  death  of  Bernice  Mayo 
was  one  never  to  be  forgotten  by  the  citizens 
of  Ocala.  Claire  Douglass  had  just  returned 
after  a  year's  absence.  He  found  his  beautiful 
cousin  (whom  his  father  desired  to  become  his 
wife)  a  guest  at  the  home  of  his  parents. 
<(  Claire, w  said  the  father,  as  they  lingered  over 
the  breakfast  table,  <(  I  have  a  fine  new  launch 
at  Silver  Springs,  and  I  wish  you  to  take  your 
cousin  for  a  sail  this  morning,  and,  by  the  per 
mission  of  you  young  people,  I  shall  make  one 
of  your  party. M  (<  Delightful,  uncle  !  M  cried  the 
girl,  and  Claire,  while  he  turned  a  trifle  pale 
at  the  thought  of  returning  to  the  spot  where 
all  that  had  given  color  to  his  life  had  trans- 

180 


The  Bridal  Chamber. 

pired,  could  only  acquiesce.  Claire  Douglass 
looked  unusually  handsome  as  the  party  drifted 
down  Silver  Springs  in  the  April  sunshine,  but 
there  was  a  curious  pallor  upon  his  face  —  and 
the  uncle  and  niece  were  left  to  carry  on  all 
the  conversation.  What  a  contrast  the  bloom 
ing  girl  in  the  April  sunshine  bore  to  the  one 
in  the  solemn  moonlight  who  had  drifted  over 
the  same  water  the  evening  before.  As  the 
launch  neared  Boiling  Spring,  the  party  noted  a 
little  boat  hovering  over  it.  The  boat  was 
rowed  by  Aunt  Silly;  and  its  other  occupant 
was  an  old  woman  whose  eyes  were  swollen 
with  weeping.  The  launch  paused  beside  the 
little  rowboat,  and  the  occupants  of  each  gazed 
into  the  curious,  transparent  depths  below. 

Suddenly  the  niece  cried  out,  (( Oh,  see !  that 
looks  like  a  hand,  a  little  human  hand. w  Plainer 
and  more  visible  it  grew,  the  little  white  hand 
with  its  gold  chain  locked  about  the  slender 
wrist.  Ah,  little  hand!  Claire  Douglass  would 
have  known  you  among  ten  thousand  hands. 
His  face  was  white  as  death,  and  he  gasped,  as 
though  choking.  All  were  intent  upon  the  scene 
below.  Suddenly  the  boiling  of  the  water  ceased, 

iSi 


The  Bridal  Chamber. 

and  out  upon  a  rock  in  its  transparent  depth, 
like  a  broken,  beautiful  lily,  lay  Bernice  Mayo, 
her  golden  hair  floating  on  the  sand,  her  dead 
face  smiling  placidly  as  if  —  at  last  a  halo  of 
peace  had  descended  upon  the  tired  spirit,  and 
the  broken  heart  had  found  rest.  With  a  wild 
cry,  which  pierced  even  the  heart  of  the  mother, 
who  for  the  last  time  in  life  gazed  upon  the 
dead  face  of  her  child,  Claire  Douglass  dashed 
overboard,  diving  deeper  —  ever  deeper  —  until 
he  caught  in  his  arms  the  little  figure  of  his 
dead  love.  Then  —  once  more  the  rock  divided, 
and  closed,  shutting  from  view  forever,  the  lov 
ers,  who  lay  locked  in  each  other's  embrace. 
And  again  the  water  whirled  and  boiled  in  its 
mad  fury,  as  if  to  defy  the  puny  will  of  him 
who  would  have  separated  what  God  had  joined 
together.  As  for  the  first  time  the  secret  bridal 
chamber  of  Silver  Springs  has  been  made  known 
to  the  world,  it  will  be  interesting  to  its  future 
visitors,  as  they  approach  that  part  of  it  known 
as  (<  Boiling  Springs, w  to  note  in  the  whirr  of 
water  beneath  (the  only  portion  of  the  springs 
not  perfectly  placid)  the  constant  shower  of  tiny 
pearl-like  shells  poured  forth  from  the  fissure 

182 


The  Bridal  Chamber. 

in  the  rock,  and  which  Aunt  Silly  says  are  the 
jewels  the  angels  gave  Bernice  Mayo  upon  her 
wedding  morning,  when  her  lover  joined  her  in 
their  fairy  palace  in  Silver  Springs.  There  is, 
too,  a  curious  flower  growing  in  the  Springs. 
A  flower  with  leaf  like  a  lily,  and  blossom 
shaped  like  an  orange  bloom.  Its  peculiar  waxy 
whiteness  and  yellow  petals  are  like  Bernice 
Mayo's  face  and  hair,  Aunt  Silly  says,  and  she 
calls  them  <(  Bernice  bridal  wreath. B  There  is 
a  legend  among  the  young  people  of  Ocala,  that 
a  woman  presented  with  one  of  these  blossoms, 
shall  become  a  bride  ere  the  close  of  the  year. 


183 


POEMS 


"  Behold  !  the  image  cold  seemed  to  have  grown 
Into  real  life  —  a  woman,  sweet  and  fair." 


TEMPTATION 


CHANTED  was  the  last  Ave  Maria, 

Annunciation  Feast  was  at  a  close, 
And  round  the  altar  of  the  Virgin  bless'd, 

The  fragrance  of  the  incense  still  arose. 

And  dense  the  subtle  waves  of  sweet  perfume, 
In  soft  and  filmy  clouds  still  lingered  there, 

As  though  they  would  obscure  from  all  rude  gaze 
The  Virgin's  face,  so  chaste,  so  meekly  fair. 

Deep-toned,  the  vesper  bell  rang  out  its  song, 

And  woke  an  echo  to  the  melody 
In  hearts  of  all  save  one,  and  that  the  priest's, 

Who  knelt  alone  in  silent  litany. 

Soft,  one  by  one  the  stars  begemmed  the  sky, 
And    through    the    windows    moonbeams    weird 

stole  in, 
And  still  the  silent  priest  beheld  them  not, 

Alone  with  Christ  —  he  fought  against  his  sin. 
187 


Temptation. 

As  stifling  as  a  tomb  had  grown  the  church, 
The  passion  pictures  all  along  the  nave 

Breathed  ghastly  fancies  to  the  heated  brain 

Of  him  whom  Satan  sought  to  claim  his  slave. 

When  lo !  Cathedral  walls  seemed  to  dissolve, 

And    nature,    fresh    and    fair    from    God's    own 
hand, 

Spread  o'er  his  head  her  canopy  of  blue, 
And  at  his  feet  rich  trophies  of  the  land. 

Bright  hued  the  butterflies  went  flitting  by, 

And  birds   made   gay   the   woodland  with   their 

song, 

While  sweet  the  old-time  scent  ot  wild  flowers  came, 
And  sweet  came  memories  that  had  slumbered 
long. 

Sharp  dropped  the  rosary  from  his  trembling  hand, 
For  kneeling  there  before  the  Virgin's  throne, 

He  felt  a  human  breath  soft  kiss  his  cheek, 

Behold!   the  image  cold  seemed  to   have  grown 

Into  real  life  —  a  woman,  sweet  and  fair; 

The  swelling  bust,  the  snowy  neck  and  arm, 
The  golden  hair,  a  fitting  picture,  made 

To  suit  the  scene,  and  thus  complete  its  charm. 

iSS 


1  The  fair  dream  picture  vanished  from  his  view, 
And  with  it,  sin  cast  off  her  blooming  mask." 


Temptation. 

The  red  lips  smiled,  the  white  hand  clasped  his 
own ; 

He  shivered,  and  his  face  grew  white  as  death ; 
A  mighty  wind  seemed  to  o'ersweep  his  frame, 

And  from  his  parched  lips,  hard  came  his  breath. 

Soft  as  the  gentle  finger-tips  of  sleep 

On  weary  eyes,  yet  keen  as  scorching  fire, 

Her  hand's  electric  touch  thrilled  every  vein, 
And  left  him  overpowered  with  mad  desire 

To  seize  and  clasp  her  in  his  close  embrace, 
And  in  one  long,  sweet  kiss,  forget  the  vow 

To  priesthood's  claim,  and  pillowed  on  her  breast, 
His  lips  on  hers,  live  only  in  the  now. 

The  fair  dream-picture  vanished  from  his  view, 
And  with  it,  sin  cast  off  her  blooming  mask, 

And  stood  unsheathed  in  all  her  ugliness, 

And  mocked,  and  taunted  him  as  if  to  ask  — 

Of  what  avail  were  sacred  oath  and  vow, 
If,  like  a  mighty  wind  o'er  sweeping  reed, 

The  flower-soft  touch  of  one  fair  woman's  hand 
Could     overweigh     the      strength     of     church's 
creed  ? 


189 


Temptation. 

The  first  faint  flush  of  dawn  blushed  in  the  east, 
And  through  cathedral  windows  trembled  fair, 

Until  it  shed  a  halo  on  the  head 

Of  him  who  wrestled  all  night  long  in  prayer. 

And  when  the  Angelus  pealed  forth  its  call, 

And    brought    the    people    to    the    church    once 
more, 

They  gazed  upon  the  priest  in  fear  and  awe, 
Amazed  at  the  angelic  look  he  wore. 


iqo 


1  They  gazed  upon  the  priest  in  fear  and  awe, 
Amazed  at  the  angelic  look  he  wore." 


VILLANELLE 


OH,  dainty,  sweet-breathed  jasmine  flower, 

I  read  the  message  passing  well, 
Ye  brought  from  fragrant  southern  bower; 

Brought  to  my  heart  with  magic  power, 

From  voice  more  southern  sweet  than  thou, 
Oh,  dainty,  sweet-breathed  jasmine  flower. 

And  not  for  earth's  most  tempting  dower, 

Would  I  exchange  the  message  sweet 
Ye  brought  from  fragrant  southern  bower. 

I  seem  to  feel  a  golden  shower 

Of  southern  sunshine  warm  in  thee, 
Oh,  dainty,  sweet-breathed  jasmine  flower. 

I  dream  —  nor  heed  the  passing  hour; 

From  Cupid's  cup  I  drain  the  draught, 
Oh,  dainty,  sweet-breathed  jasmine  flower, 
Ye  brought  from  fragrant  southern  bower. 
191 


1    MISS   YOU   SO 

(Respectfully  dedicated  to  Mrs.  George  Howell  Finn) 


THE  ocean  tosses  at  my  feet, 

I  love  its  ebb  and  flow, 
And  yet  its  burden  seems  to  be, 

I  miss  you  —  miss  you  so. 

Upon  its  bosom  sails  a  ship, 
It  stately  drifts,  and  slow, 

It  bears  a  missive  saying,  dear 
I  miss  you  —  miss  you  so. 

Upon  my  breast  a  crimson  rose 
Breathes  sweet,  as  zephyrs  blow, 

But  e'en  its  incense  seems  to  say, 
I  miss  you  —  miss  you  so. 

The  moon  in  sky-land  meadow  drifts 
O'er  sea,  in  bed  of  snow, 

And  yet  its  brightness  saddens  me, 
I  miss  you  —  miss  you  so. 
192 


MISSISSIPPI   ON   THE   GULF 

(PASS  CHRISTIAN,  Miss.) 


MY  heart  is  jest  a-pinin'  fer  the  South, 

A-longin'  an'  a-achin'  fer  to  see 
The  sun  a  gleatnin',  streamin'  through  the  leaves 

Of  lilac-blossomed  china-berry  tree. 

A-longin'  fer  the  jasmine's  incense  sweet, 

The  honeysuckle,   an'  the  pinewood's  green, 

The  gulf  a-lashin',  dashin'  on  the  beach, 

Where  loungin'  you  can  catch  the  sea  air  keen. 

An'  when  upon  the  gulf  the  moonlight  sleeps, 
The  water  gleams  a-tremblin'  bed  of  white, 

An'  clear  the  mock-birds   sing  an'  ring  their  song, 
Athwart  the  odorous  stillness  of  the  night. 

Oh,  dear  old  Mississippi  on  the  gulf, 
My  heart  is  just  a-achin'  fer  to  see 

The  sunlight  driftin',  siftin'  through  the  leaves 
Of  creamy-blossomed,  tall  magnolia  tree. 
13  T93 


WHY  DANDELIONS   TURN   GRAY 


A  FINE  young  lord  came  flitting  by, 

Gold-coated  bumblebee; 
He  gayly  humm'd  an  old  love-song, 

A  sad,  sad  flirt  was  he. 

Upon  a  dandelion  he  smiled, 
And  praised  her  yellow  hair, 

And  vowed  if  she  would  grant  a  kiss 
Allegiance  he  would  swear. 

The  dandelion  her  fair  face  hid 

Within  her  golden  hair, 
And  deemed  it  strange  a  gay  young  lord 

Should  find  plebeian  fair. 

<(No  Loves  but  vagrant  winds  have  I,w 

She  said  with  tossing  head, 
(<And  should  I  give  to  you  a  kiss, 

'Twould  not  be  missed, w  she  said. 
194 


Why  'Dandelions  Turn  Gray. 

Close  by  a  little  violet, 

Shamed  —  drooped  her  azure  eyes; 
The  lily  hung  her  modest  head, 

The  rose  blushed  with  surprise. 

A  listening  bird  sang  overhead, 

<(Oh,   dandelion,  be  ware, w 
While  at  her  feet  a  katy-did, 

Sharp  chirped,  (C  take  care  —  take  care." 

But  recked  she  not  their  warning  notes, 

Nor  heeded  flowers'  surprise, 
Her  silly  heart  was  proud,  that  she 

Found  grace  in  royal  eyes. 

The  lord  then  kissed  her  fragrant  lips, 

Caressed  her  golden  hair, 
And  whispered  that,  midst  all  the  flowers, 

She  reigned  the  queen  most  fair. 

And  every  day  more  vain  she  grew, 
In  that  her  wond'rous  charms 

Should  lift  her  from  a  humble  lot, 
And  give  her  coat  of  arms. 

But  as  the  summer  glided  by 

Her  heart  with  fear  grew  numb, 

For  promises  that  were  not  kept, 
And  lord  who  did  not  come. 


Why  'Dandelions  Turn  Gray. 

And  all  her  golden  locks  turned  gray, 
Her  face  grew  blanched  with  fear, 

Lest  ne'er  again  her  lover's  voice 
In  rapture  she  should  hear. 

In  woe  she  cried  unto  the  gods, 

w  If  my  Love's  false,  I  pray 
Ye  bid  Hermes  come  unto  me, 

And  waft  my  soul  away." 

She  turned  about,  and  there  beheld 

His  lordship  at  her  side, 
His  mouth  all  sweet  with  choice  perfume, 

From  lips  of  moss-rose  bride. 

And  lo!  unto  her  Hermes  came, 

And  bore  her  soul  away, 
Unto  Olympus'  snowy  heights, 

Where  reigns  eternal  day. 

And  since  she  trifled  thus  with  Love, 

The  debt  her  race  must  pay 
By  forfeiting  their  golden  locks; 

So  —  dandelions  turn  gray. 

And  thus  it  is  with  maid  or  flower 
Whose  love's  not  well  bestowed, 

The  fetter,  though  a  band  of  gold, 
The  victim's  soul  must  goad. 
196 


LINES   TO    A    BEAUTIFUL   GIRL 


SHAKE  out  your  fragrance,  dew-drenched  rose, 
Breathe  soft  your  incense,  jasmine  sweet, 

Bear  them,  O  breeze,  in  fragrant  kiss, 
To  Flossie,  fair,  on  wings  so  fleet. 

The  whiteness  of  the  lily  fair, 

The  warmth  of  crimson-hearted  rose, 

The  grace  and  beauty  of  the  gods, 
In  lovely  Flossie  all  repose. 

The  quiet  of  cathedral  dim, 

The  joyous  music  of  the  birds, 
Are  Flossie's:  —  She  a  symphony 

Set  to  a  poem  of  sweet  words. 


i97 


AWAY   DOWN   IN   GEORGIA 


A  MOUNTAIN  lad  and  lassie  fair, 
As  free  from  care  as  birds  in  air, 
A  lovely,  thoughtless,  happy  pair, 
Away  down  in  Georgia. 

Untaught,  the  lad,  in  worldly  way, — 
The  lass  coquettish,  wild  and  gay; 
She  broke  a  heart  in  sportive  play, 
Away  down  in  Georgia. 

Long  years  have  come  and  gone  since  then 
The  mountain  lad  of  <(  Jasmine  Glen  * 
Is  shrewdest  of  the  legal  men, 
Away  down  in  Georgia. 

A  woman  lone,  in  foreign  clime,— 
A  statesman,  in  his  manhood's  prime, — 
Each  sighing  for  <(the  auld  lang  syne,M 
Away  down  in  Georgia. 
198 


Away  T)own  in  Georgia. 

When  they  were  lad  and  lassie  fair, 
As  free  from  care  as  birds  in  air, 
A  lovely,  thoughtless,  happy  pair, 
Away  down  in  Georgia. 


199 


PROTEST 

AH,  ye,  whose  souls  dwell  not  among  the  clouds, 
Who  cull  not  bright-hued  fancies  from  the  flowers, 

Hear  not  sweet  music  wafted  on  the  breeze. 
What  know  ye  of  this  mystic  world  of  ours  ? 

What  know  ye  of  the  fierce  intensity 

Of    Pleasure  ?    (god-born    nymph    for    which    we 

weep, 
And  slay  King  Reason  in  a  single  quaff 

From  Cupid's  cup,  with  which  our  souls  we  steep. ) 

Then  judge  us  not,  ye  folks  of  mundane  sphere; 

Your  earth-bound  feet  can  never  hope  to  press 
The  <(  milky  way w  of  heaven,  that  path  of  gods, 

Nor  touch  the  bright-hued  train  of  Iris'  dress. 


V1LLANELLE 


'NEATH  a  sunbonnet  smiled  my  face, 

(<  Fresh  as  a  rose,^  my  sweetheart  said; 
'Neath  a  sunbonnet  soft  with  lace. 

"Like  flower  in  an  exquisite  vase, 

Or  jewel  rich  and  rare,"  he  said, 
'Neath  a  sunbonnet  smiled  my  face. 

And  he  said  that  my  (< roguish  grace* 

Made  him  my  <(  captive, w  when  I  smiled 
'Neath  a  sunbonnet  soft  with  lace. 

And  now  I  smile  from  jeweled  case, 

He  caught  me  with  his  cam'ra,  when  — 
'Neath  a  sunbonnet  smiled  my  face, 
'Neath  a  sunbonnet  soft  with  lace. 


'  IT  shall  live  in  song  and  story, 
Though  its  folds  are  in  the  dust." 

THE   STARS    AND    BARS 


THE  bonny  flag,  the  stars  and  bars, 
The  dear  old  flag  we  loved  so  well, 

Our  flag  immortal,  for  'twill  live 
Always  in  tales  that  poets  tell. 

Aye !  more  than  this ;  'twill  ever  live 
In  every  throb  of  Southern  heart, 
In  tender  love  —  more  priceless  far 
Than  bloomless  laurels  could  impart. 

202 


The  Stars  and  'Bars. 

Not  only  shall  its  mem'ry  live 

In  noble  hearts  that  wore  the  gray, 

But  cherished,  just  as  tenderly, 

For  their  dear  sakes  in  after  day. 

When  their  brave  hearts  have  ceased  to  beat, 
And  unborn  youth  their  places  fill, 

The  dear  old  flag,  the  stars  and  bars, 
In  tenderest  love  will  linger  still. 

And  sons  and  daughters  proudly  wear 
Upon  their  breasts  its  symbol  dear, 

While  mothers  teach  their  lisping  babes 
To  reverence  the  old  flag  with  tear. 


203 


ONENESS 

You  seem  so  near  to-night, 

Your  eyes  smile  into  mine 
With  the  same  tender  light 
That  made  my  life  so  bright 

With  sunshine  —  caught  from  thine. 

And  e'en  your  voice  I  hear, 

I  start  —  and  turn  around, 
As  rich,  and  full,  and  clear, 
There  falls  upon  my  ear 

That  magic  old-time  sound. 

I  feel  your  hand  clasp  mine, 

And  tremble  at  its  thrill, 
While  all  the  magic  grace 
Of  your  proud  loving  face 

Doth  beam  upon  me  still. 
204 


Oneness. 

And  now  —  glow  warm  and  rich 

Your  kisses  half  divine, 
They  thrill  adown  my  veins 
As  might  the  fiery  stains 

Of  some  rich,  rare  old  wine. 

And  is  this  but  a  dream  ? 

Ah  no,  o'er  time  and  space, 
O'er  stretch  of  land  and  sea, 
You'll  ever  come  to  me 

In  all  your  magic  grace. 


ECHO 

(Dedicated  to  Lucretia  Heine  Zink,  aged  three,  who  gave  inspiration  to 
the  poem.) 


A  BABY  face  with  tear-wet  eyes 
Leaned  o'er  a  deep-curbed  well, 

<(I'd  det  you  wif  a  stick,  *  she  cried, 
(<If  I  knew  where  you  fell.* 

(<  Is  it  your  doll,  my  love  ?  w  said  I ; 

She  shook  her  golden  head, 
(<  I'll  det  her  wif  a  great  big  stick, 

It's  Echo,  dear,"  she  said. 

<(  Dear  little  Echo  that  loves  me ; 

Now  hark !  < I  love  you !  *  hear  ? w 
And  up  from  out  the  deep  old  well, 

Came  <(  love  you,"  soft  and  clear. 

<(  Echo's  a  water  nymph,  my  sweet, 
And  that's  her  home,"  said  I; 

If  you  should  bring  her  here  to  live. 
Poor  little  thing  would  die. 
206 


Echo. 

(<  She  lives  down  deep  in  Crystal  Cave, 
In  home  that's  bright  and  fair.0 

(<  She's  happy  then !  *  the  baby  said, 
<(I  dess  I'll  leave  her  there. w 

And  thus  it  is  with  sage  and  seer; 

They  smile  and  weep  in  vain, 
Not  knowing  that  the  grief  or  joy 

But  echoes  their  own  brain. 


207 


WHAT    HER   SISTER   THOUGHT 


I  WOULDN'T  dive  my  pretty  doll 

To  Echo  in  the  well, 
Nor  dive  gold  buttons  to  the  goose, 

If  out  my  dwess  they  fell, 

Like  'Cretia  did;  for  when  next  year 
Dear  Santa  makes  our  tree, 

He'll  find  all  'Cretia's  things  are  gone 
And  then  he'll  say  — (<  Oh  me! 

She  didn't  keep  a  single  thing 
I  bringed  to  her  last  year; 

I  dess  this  time  I'll  have  to  dive 
Them  to  her  Sister  dear.w 

And  so  I  will  not  dive  my  doll 

To  Echo  in  the  well, 
Nor  feed  the  gooses  buttons  gold, 

If  out  my  dwess  they  fell. 


20S 


CLEOPATRA 


HERE,   Charmion!  unbind  my  locks, 
And  let  their  bright  luxuriant  fold, 

Sweep  unconfined  —  in  glittering  mass, 
Bedecked  in  Egypt's  regal  gold. 

My  robe  of  finest  texture  bring, 
With  filmy  lace,  and  jewels  rare, 

That  Cleopatra  may  to-night, 

Amongst  the  fairest,  reign  most  fair. 

And  then,  by  all  the  gods  I  swear, 

When  Rome's  proud  ruler  'gain  we  greet, 

Despite  his  honor  or  his  land, 

Meek  he  shall  kneel  at  Egypt's  feet. 

Your  virtue,  cold  Octavia, 

Your  station  proud  —  and  you  his  wife, 
Can  never  bind  great  Antony, 

For  mine  he  is  —  and  mine  for  life. 
209 


Cleopatra. 

In  wildest  triumph  swells  my  heart, 

And  fire  seems  coursing  through  my  veins, 

Kindling  anew  old  thoughts  and  dreams, 
Recalled  from  mem'ries  long-lost  strains. 

Haste  then!  ye  lagging  moments,   haste! 

And  bring  proud  Antony  to  my  feet, 
With  all  the  passion  of  his  love, 

With  all  his  ardent  wooing  sweet. 

Bring  back  to  me  my  Roman  love, 
My  princely  ruler,  warrior  bold, 

E'en  now  he  loves  me  better  far, 

Than  people,  country,   fame  or  gold. 

Haste  then,  my  gentle  Charmion, 

Bring  richest  robe,  and  gems  most  rare, 

That  Cleopatra  may  to-night, 

Amongst  the  fairest,  reign  most  fair. 


RETROSPECTION 

(Dedicated  to  Lulu  Bainbridge  Zink.) 


JUST  ask  old  Time  to  stand  aside; 

Swing  wide  his  curtain,  sister  mine, 
And  fairy-pinioned  let  us  drift 

Again  to  childhood's  glad  playtime ; 

To  childhood's  simple  guileless  joys, 

When  bird  or  flower  called  forth  a  smile, 

When  we  knew  not  a  single  care, 

Nor  knew  the  world's  deceit  and  guile. 

Old  Time!  —  thy  curtain  wider  sweep, 
Grudge  not  to  me  this  slight  request, 

There  —  little  sister,  can  you  see 

How  gay  the  fields  and  woods  are  dressed  ? 

Our  playhouse  in  the  garden,  too, 
Beneath  yon  clump  of  lily  bloom, 

Where  gladsome  summers  swiftly  sped, 
And  our  young  hearts  were  all  attune 

211 


Retrospection. 

To  summer's  poesy  and  song; 

Ah!  childish  dreamers  we,  and  quaint, 
Methinks  I  ofttimes  catch  the  smell 

Of  those  same  flowers,  that  memories  paint. 

Yet,  since  on  ocean,  I  my  bark 

With  boldness  all  her  sails  unfurl, 

This  maddened  current  I'll  not  shun, 
For  calmer  harbor  —  little  girl. 


212 


REGRET 

ALL  evenin'  I've  been  settin'  here 

A-cryin'  to  myself, 
Over  this  ragged  little  book, 

From  off  the  garret  shelf. 
It's  twenty  years  an'  over  now, 

Sence  I  have  seen  the  book, 
I  felt  so  lonely-like  to-night, 

I  thought  I'd  go  an'  look 

Fer  it;  fer  somehow  all  these  years 

I've  hankered  fer  that  book, 
A-layin'  there  deserted  —  an' 

Dust  covered  in  its  nook. 
I  couldn't  trust  my  feelin's  though, 

An'  so  I  let  it  lay 
All  dusty  on  the  garret  shelf 

Until  this  very  day. 
213 


Regret. 

You  see  it  b'longed  to  little  Tom, 

Who  died  long  years  ago; 
It  seems  to  me  but  yisterday, 

Though  time  does  drag  so  slow; 
I  almost  see  his  little  head 

A-bendin'  o'er  the  book, 
A-lookin'  at  the  picters  there, 

As  children  like  to  look. 

I  almost  hear  his  little  voice 

Ring  out  in  merry  glee, 
As  he'd  pick  out  the  picters  in't 

An'  tell  uv  them  to  me. 
His  sunny  curls  a-tumblin'  down 

Jes  techin'  uv  the  book, 
While  he  looked  at  the  picters  in't 

As  children  like  to  look. 


The  losin'  of  him,  I  might  stand, 

Though  time  does  drag  so  slow, 
Ef  it  was  not  fer  what  I  done 

Mor'n  twenty  years  ago. 
One  brilin'  day  in  summer  time 

When  I'd  been  workin'  hard, 
A-bakin',  an'  a-washin',  an' 

A-weedin'  in  the  yard. 
214 


Regret. 

My  little  Tom  came  rtmnin'  up, 

A-holdin'  of  the  book, 
An'  sayin',  <(  See  this  picter,  dear, 

Oh  mother!  please  do  look!w 
But  I  was  warm,  an'  awful  tired, 

An'  didn't  want  to  see, 
An'  so  I  turned  an'  slapped  the  child, 

An'  cried,  <l  Quit  botherin'  me !  w 

I  still  kin  see  the  big  tear-drops, 

Come  to  his  little  eyes ; 
But  how  should  I  know  baby  Tom 

Was  ripenin'  fer  the  skies  ? 
An'  that  day  wus  the  very  last 

He  ever  teched  the  book, 
He  went  an'  put  it  on  the  shelf 

With  sech  a  sorry  look. 

An'  that  night  he  wus  taken  sick, 

An'  all  the  time  he'd  say, 
((  Oh  mother,  I  won't  bother  you, 

I'll  take  my  book  away.w 
I  hear  it  durin'  all  the  day, 

I  hear  it  all  the  night; 
It  comes  to  me  with  every  sound, 

It  comes  with  every  sight; 
215 


Regret. 

An'  when  I'm  settin'  here  alone 

An'  mem'ries  round  me  crowd, 
An'  th'  clock  ticks  so  lonesome-like, 

An'  sounds  all  seem  so  loud, 
It's  then  I  see  the  little  face, 

So  dimpled,  an'  so  fair, 
The  big  blue  eyes  brim-full  of  tears, 

The  curly  yaller  hair, 
The  little  voice  draws  nearer  then, 

So  plain  it  seems  to  say, 
<(  Oh  mother,  I  won't  bother  you, 

I'll  take  my  book  away.w 


216 


INFINITE 


I  HAVE  wept  in  tempestuous  fashion 

Till    my    eyes    have    grown    dim    with    their 

tears, 
Ever  striving  to  crush  out  a  passion 

That  must  only  grow  stronger  with  years. 

Heart  and  brain  have  held  combat  together, 
And  have  waged  a  war,  bitter  and  strong, 

But  the  brain's  reasoning  weighs  not  a  feather 
In  the  heart's  current,  fiery  and  strong. 

I  have  wildly  implored  help  from  heaven, 
Help  to  crush  down  and  bury  this  love, 

But  I  know,  should  all  heaven  be  riven 

Of  its  strength  and  sent  down  from  above, 

'Twould  avail  not;  for  stronger  than  this  is, 
Is  the  love  that  I  know  cannot  die; 

And  from  out  of  the  depth  of  its  blisses, 
Forever  and  ever  'twill  cry. 
217 


Infinite. 

From  my  sight  oft  I  think  it  entombed, 
So  deep  down  that  no  eye  can  discover ; 

But  anon  —  it  will  burst  forth  illumed, 
All  too  fair,  for  such  uncanny  cover. 

And  it  bridges  all  time  and  all  space, 
Ah,  yes,  all  —  that  can  keep  us  apart; 

Till  it  clasps  me  in  eager  embrace  — 

Close  —  so  close  to  its  warm  beating  heart. 

And  to-night,  in  the  cruel  starvation 
Of  this  pitiless,  passionate  love, 

For  one  kiss  I  would  barter  creation, 
And  vie  with  the  joy  that's  above. 


218 


A    DARK   NIGHT 


You  all  can  harp  about  moonlight, 
As  much  as  ever  you  please, 

Its  shinins  an'  its  shadders,  how 
They  play  amongst  the  trees. 

But  just  give  me  a  pitch-dark  night, 
With  black  clouds  in  the  sky; 

You  want  to  know  the  reason,  hey? 
Well !  I  can  tell  you  why. 

'Twas  on  jest  such  an  evenin';  Oh! 

(I  mind  right  well  the  weath'r), 
A  lot  of  us  was  comin'  home 

From  dancin'  school  together. 

An'  somebody  was  next  to  me, 
You  needn't  ask  me  who ! 

An'  in  the  dark  he  held  my  hand, 
An'  kep'  on  hold'n  it,  too, 
219 


A  Dark  Night. 

Until  we  reached  the  doorstep,  an' — 

When  he's  about  to  go, 
I  felt  his  lips  soft  pressed  to  mine, 

An'  heard  him  whisper  low : 

Somethin'  'at  made  me  —  Oh,  so  glad, 

I  can't  fergit  the  night, 
An'  I  know  he  would  not  have  said  't, 

If  it  had  been  moonlight. 

So  you  can  harp  about  moonlight, 
As  much  as  ever  you  please, 

Its  shinins  an'  its  shadders,  how 
They  play  amongst  the  trees. 

But  jes  give  me  a  pitch-dark  night, 
With  clouds  a-rollin'  grand, 

An'  my  sweetheart  walkin'  with  me, 
A-holdin'  of  my  hand. 


220 


GOLD   VS.   LOVE 


SHAKE  out  the  trailing  sheeny  silk, 

Unfold  the  dainty  lace, 
Place  buds  upon  her  golden  hair, 

Just  o'er  her  flower-like  face. 

Make  fast  these  gems  upon  her  arms, 
These  in  her  shell-like  ears; 

Heed  not  the  mist  o'er  her  soft  eyes, 
Which  gem  their  blue  with  tears. 

And  trail  the  gauzy  bridal  veil, 

Across  her  tear-wet  eyes, 
Forget  her  proud  mouth's  quivering, 

Forget  her  stifled  sighs. 

From  out  the  gleam  of  starlit  past, 

Into  the  gloom  of  now, 
There  comes  from  rust  of  bygone  years, 

A  face  —  and  broken  vow. 

221 


Gold  vs.  Love. 

But  what's  a  handsome  face  and  love  — 

From  out  the  dreamy  past  ? 
Why  here  are  title,  land  and  wealth, 

The  things  that  give  one  cast. 

Then  bring  ye  forth  the  gray-haired  groom, 

So  wrinkled  and  so  old, 
And  pray  forget  the  tearful  bride 

Has  sold  herself  for  gold. 

Come  forth,  ye  tearful,  shrinking  bride, 

Forget  the  sweet,  dead  past, 
Accept  your  title,  land  and  gold, 

The  things  that  give  one  cast. 


LINES   TO    MY   MOTHER 


WE  miss  you  as  the  flowers  miss 

The  gentle  fall  of  rain, 
Or  as  we  miss  the  roses,  or 

The  song-bird's  sweet  refrain. 

When  evening's  purple  twilight  comes, 

At  golden  noontide  hour, 
There's  ever  something  lacking  in 

Their  splendor  and  their  power. 

Even  your  pet  canary,  and 

Your  parrot,  gorgeous  green, 

Your  absence  note  with  silence  and 
Would  welcome  you,  I  ween, 

With  burst  of  song  and  chatter  that 
Will  prove  that  even  they 

Are  glad  your  long  and  weary  stay 
At  length  has  passed  away. 


Lines  to  My  Mother. 

And  as  first  buds  of  springtime  smile 

Upon  our  welcome  sight, 
Or  as  with  pleasure,  after  dark, 

We  hail  dawn's  rosy  light, 

We  welcome  thy  dear  coming,  Oh, 
Thou  queen  of  heart  and  home; 

Our  love  is  like  the  ocean  deep, 
Our  pleasure  as  its  foam. 


224 


CONTENT 

THE  wind  blows  keen,  the  sleet  sifts  fine, 

Yet  merrily  I  plod  along; 
My  happy  heart  is  keeping  time 

To  love's  sweet  pictures  set  to  song. 
Into  the  night 
There  gleams  a  light 
From  yonder  cot  hard  by, 
Where  faces  dear, 
And  hearty  cheer, 
Both  pain  and  care  defy. 

I'd  not  exchange  with  any  king 

His  palace  for  my  humble  lot, 
Where  she  who  wears  my  wedding-ring, 
Like  queen,  adorns  my  humble  cot. 
Through  sleet  and  rain, 
From  window-pane, 
A  form  of  baby  grace, 
With  eyes  of  blue, 
Is  peering  through 
To  spy  her  daddy's  face. 
225 


Content. 

Oh,  baby  dear,  your  sunny  hair 

I'd  not  exchange  for  misers'  gold; 
Oh,  little  wife,  no  thought  of  care 

Is  mine,  when  I  such  treasures  hold. 
Athwart  the  night 
Yon  candle  bright 
To  me  is  beacon  star; 
I  haste  me  fast, 
Through  sleet  and  blast, 
To  where  my  treasures  are. 


226 


CHASTENED 


WHENE'ER  in  life  the  soul's  great  scale 

Is  swept  by  master  hand, 
It  vibrates  to  a  chord  of  pain 

We  can  not  understand. 

The  soul  that  hears  the  rhapsodies 
Of  heaven  while  here  below, 

Must  stand  alone  and  view  the  throng 
Which  'bout  him  ebb  and  flow. 

Each  pain  holds  bliss,  tho'  deeply  hid, 
Each  gift  withheld  proves  joy, 

And  only  life  that's  hid  in  Christ 
Finds  peace  —  without  alloy. 


227 


REVERY 

(PABLO   BEACH,  FLORIDA.) 


THE  green  sea  dimples  in  the  glowing  sun, 
And  at  my  feet  soft  casts  its  snowy  foam, 

As  dreamily  I  gaze  far  oceanward, 

Nor  check  my  fancies  which  so  idly  roam. 

Aye !  fancies  which  must  ever  riot  run, 

And  paint  fair  pictures  to  my  famished  eyes, 

Pictures  which  rival  aught  that  art  can  paint, 
And  smile  again  —  beneath  these  Southern  skies. 

To  thee,  dear  heart,  who  art  so  far  away, 

Ten  thousand  tender  fancies  chant  sweet  song, 

And  all  in  nature  that  is  beautiful, 

My  heart  and  soul  cry  out,  to  thee  belong. 

The  softest  breeze  of  this  dear  (<  Land  of  Flowers, w 
Not  softer  is  —  than  thy  sweet  Southern  voice; 

The  splendor  of  thy  perfect,  matchless  soul, 
Nature  reflects,  and  smiles,  and  does  rejoice. 
228 


Re-very. 

Sing  on,  green  sea,  and  dimple  in  the  sun; 

Trill  loud,  ye  mock-birds,  in  this  land  of  flowers; 
Blow  soft,  ye  fragrant-laden  breezes,  blow, 

While  I  dream  on — throughout  these  golden 
hours. 


229 


I    AM   THE   WAY» 

(ST.  JOHN   I4th  — 6.) 


BE  still,  oh  earth!  and  lowly,  hark! 

Why  will  ye  walk  in  grief  and  pain, 
And  dull  your  ears  to  melody 

Of  angel  voices'  sweet  refrain  ? 

For  forty  years  in  wilderness 

Toiled  Israel  —  while  fair  and  bright, 
Within  her  very  grasp,   there  lay 

The  promised  land. —  a  heavenly  sight. 

So  now,  before  each  living  soul, 

There  stretches  pure  a  peaceful  life, 

Where  troubled  waters  never  roll, 
Nor  any  earthly  care  or  strife. 

When  trouble  casts  its  darkened  pall 
Athwart  thy  path  excluding  day, 

Oh  burdened  soul  —  but  turn  to  Him 
Who  cries  to  thee,  (<  I  am  the  Way." 
230 


«/  am  the  Way* 

Oh  blessed  Way  from  every  care, 

Thou  makest  night  shine  forth  as  day, 

When  we  but  realize,  Oh  Christ! 

That  Thou  forever  art  «the  Way." 


231 


FLORIDA,  QUEEN    OF    THE   SOUTH 


OH  Florida,  thou  beauteous  queen, 

Of  all  the  South  most  witching  fair; 

Upon  thy  bosom  blue  lakes  gleam, 

Thy  brow  is  crowned  with  blossoms  rare. 

Thou  art  the  land  of  luscious  fruit, 

Of  tropic  trees,  and  birds,  and  flowers; 

God  left  the  trace  of  his  own  hand 
On  Florida's  enchanted  bowers. 

Not  all  the  tribute  poets  bring, 

Oh  land  of  flowers,  to  thy  fair  shrine, 

Can  estimate  thy  loveliness, 

Or  paint  one-half  those  charms  of  thine. 

God  must  have  made  thee,   oh  thou  queen, 

His  Eden  for  the  sinless  pair, 
For  not  a  spot  on  all  the  globe, 

Did  he  create  one-half  so  fair. 


232 


LINES   RESPECTFULLY    DEDICATED 
To  GENERAL  j.  J.  DICKISON. 


A  BOOK  and  bunch  of  violets, 
Placed  in  my  fevered  hand, 

As  languishing  on  bed  of  pain 
I  lay  in  distant  land  — 

In  eloquence  shall  always  speak, 
Of  tender  heart  and  brave, 

Who  led  his  men  so  valiantly, 
Dear  Dixie  land  to  save. 

But  all  the  laurels  he  has  won, 
(To  those  who  know  him  best) 

Tell  not  one-half  the  story  of 
His  nature's  nobleness. 

For  this  heart  that  was  bravest  in 
The  battle's  fiercest  strife, 

Sweet  radiates  the  teachings  of 
The  Master's  blessed  life. 
233 


Dedicatory  Lines. 

Soon —  from  o'er  all  the  Land  of  Flowers, 
The  boys  who  wore  the  gray, 

Shall  gather  at  fair  Jacksonville, 
For  the  <(  unveiling  w  day. 

To  see  their  hero's  statue,  which 

Shall  ever  proudly  stand, 
To  grace  the  fairest  city  in 

Fair  Florida's  bright  land. 

The  frosts  of  age  are  on  his  brow 
But  Spring  blooms  in  his  heart, 

Her  blossoms  and  her  sunshine,  from 
His  soul  shall  ne'er  depart. 

Forever  shall  his  valor  live, 

In  every  Southern  breast ; 
His  acts  of  unseen  kindness,  with 

The  ones  who  know  him  best. 


OCALA,  FLA.,  Feb.  22d, 


234 


THE    RED,   RED    ROSE 


PLACE  not  within  my  cold  dead  hands 

A  flower  of  snowy  white, 
But  give  to  me  the  red,  red  rose, 

All  warm  with   crimson  light. 

Deck  not  my  bier  with  any  flower 

But  with  the  red,  red  rose, 
And  may  it  breathe  to  those  I  love 

My  sweetness  of  repose. 

Drape  not  my  door  in  sable,  friends, 

Nor  wear  the  garb  of  woe ; 
Why  should  we  mourn,  when  God  Himself 

Has  bade  a  spirit  go  ? 

Then  place  not  in  my  lifeless  hand 

A  flower  of  snowy  white, 
But  bring  to  me  the  red,  red  rose, 

All  warm  with  crimson  light. 


235 


HOW    DO    I    LOVE   YOU? 


You  ask  me  how  I  love  you,  sweetheart  mine! 
I  love  you  as  the  birds  love  fruits'  ripe  wine. 
I  love  you  as  the  bee  loves  orange  bloom, 
Rich  laden  with  the  Southland's  sweet  perfume. 

I  love  you  as  the  parched  flowers  love  the  rain, 
Which  kiss  them  back  to  beauteous  life  again. 
I  love  you  as  the  morning  loves  the  light, 
Which  dissipates  the  shadows  of  the  night. 

I  love  you  —  as  a  mother  babe  on  breast, 
When  soft  she  wooes  the  fragile  thing  to  rest. 
Yet  —  love  you  fierce  as  tiger  loves  his  mate 
In  jungle,  where  he  roams  untamed  in  state. 

I  love  you  as  God's  Word  bids  woman  love, 
With  just  the  worship  man  gives  God  above. 
And  all  my  will  is  lost,  Oh  sweetheart  mine, 
Forever,  in  the  lightest  wish  of  thine. 


236 


TRUST 


BETWEEN  us  yawned  a  gulf  we  could  not  bridge, 
We  trembled  on  its  brink  —  and  gazed  to  shore, 

For  lo !  a  bright-winged  angel  hovered  there, 
And  in  his  mystic  touch  our  spirits  bore, 

Beyond  the  surging  tide  to  sylvan  nook, 
Where  birds  Ave  Maria  always  chant, 

And  lilies  swing  their  censered  incense  sweet 

Athwart    dream-faces  —  seen   through   cloudland 
slant. 

And  as  God's  priests  (through  Him)  speak  peace  to 

soul, 

So  to  us,  those  pure  surpliced,  soulless  flowers 
Spake    peace  ;    while     chanted     all     the    feathered 

choir 

God's   praise,  through   nature's   green   cathedral 
bowers. 

237 


Trust. 

And  so  we  clung,  and  lingered  near  the  gulf 
The  brackish  waters  sweeping  at  our  feet, 

While  far  beyond  the  angel  bore  our  souls 
To  spots  where  only  kindred  spirits  meet. 

In  life — 'tis  ever  thus  to  those  who  trust  — 
They  are  upheld  by  mystic  spirit  hands; 

And  Christ,  in  all  his  blessed  tenderness, 
Close  to  each  waiting  soul  forever  stands. 


238 


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